Let Me In 2
by Lee Kyle
Summary: Picking up immediately after the ending of Let Me In, this novel follows the struggles and joys of Abby and Owen as they attempt to survive Abby's condition and the pursuit of a relentless FBI agent.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: FBI Response**

_This case is going to make my career._

FBI Special Agent Charles Alvirez reached this conclusion immediately upon entering the swimming facility and observing pieces of dismembered children scattered about the deck. His partner, Doug Jenkins, presented a more prosaic thought: "Holy sh-."

Alvirez and Jenkins walked gingerly about the pool, allowing the swarm of Los Alamos police to document the scene. A diver fished body parts out of the water and stacked them next to the shallow end. A hole in a ceiling window permitted snowflakes to fall lazily from the night sky, creating an oddly beautiful contrast with the gore below.

Alvirez glanced over his shoulder, observed the Los Alamos Sheriff waiting impatiently for him. Let him wait. Alvirez liked thinking over a crime scene on his own for the first few minutes.

The agents stopped at a diving board, upon which lay the remains of (one?) child. Alvirez didn't touch the body, but he studied the wounds carefully from several angles. There was just no getting around it. The boy appeared to have been ripped to pieces.

"If you and I held a teenager on opposite ends and pulled as hard we could, would he come apart?" Alvirez asked.

"It would hurt him," Doug replied.

"But it wouldn't dissect him."

Alvirez shook his head. He had seen nasty things happen to the human body in Vietnam. But there was no evidence that explosives had been employed in this space.

"Shotguns?" his partner suggested.

"No pellets," Alvirez said. "No casings. No spatter on the walls."

"Something blew that window out."

"True," Alvirez granted, but he was suspicious. The hole in the ceiling was the only real indication that firearms might have been used. There was no smell of gunpowder, though.

Doug shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose I have to say it," he offered. "Chainsaws?"

"Again, no spatter. I'm thinking bladed weaponry.

"But the wounds are too ragged."

Alvirez frowned, yet allowed the point. He had never actually seen a limb severed with a sword. Presumably the cuts would be clean. Cleaner than this, anyway. Something for the coroner to figure out.

They resumed their slow walk, came to another body whose head carried a large bandage over the left ear. Alvirez paused for a moment, enjoyed his last "moment of purity." So far he had refused to be told anything. All he knew was what he saw: a massacre fit for a media circus. Not just four dead students – four dead students killed _on school property_. And in thoroughly gruesome fashion, to boot.

But the purity of his ignorance couldn't be allowed to last. "Sheriff Johnson," Alvirez finally said, motioning the man over. "What have you figured out so far?"

"The incident occurred about 5:15 PM," the sheriff informed him. "An afterschool swim session was taking place, twenty or twenty-five students present. We're still trying to figure out exactly who was here. The session was being monitored by the gym teacher, a Mr. Vladimir Zoric.

"One of the deceased students entered the pool area and informed Mr. Zoric of a fire outside. Mr. Zoric went to investigate. He found the contents of a garbage dumpster on fire. When he tried to reenter the building he found it locked. Mr. Zoric ran around to the front of the building, observed students fleeing through the front entrance. He used the pay phone in the lobby to call 911. Then he reentered the pool area and discovered the four bodies."

"None of the deceased are wearing bathing suits," Doug observed.

"They weren't participating in the swim session," the sheriff replied.

"The timing doesn't make sense," Alvirez said. "The gym teacher runs around the building, right? Two minutes, tops. Makes a phone call. Call that another two minutes. Let's give him a minute to make it back to the pool. You're saying our perpetrators did all this _and_ got away in less than five minutes?"

"There's a lot that doesn't make sense," the sheriff shrugged.

_No argument there_, Alvirez thought. "We need testimony from the children who were here."

The sheriff nodded. "Zoric is trying to make a list of the kids who were in the pool. We're calling their homes, getting them to try and remember who else was here."

"So we could have students unaccounted for and not even know it," Alvirez said. "We've really got to nail down that list, make sure every student has made it home safely."

"We've got officers in the principal's office," the sheriff informed them. "They're pulling student files and making calls. The administrative staff have all returned to the building. They're helping us out."

"Good," Alvirez replied. His support team from Albuquerque would arrive shortly. No doubt they could do a better job than the Los Alamos Police Department. But the agent had no desire to force a jurisdictional battle. He would need the locals before long, and he was content to let them feel important. The case was going to become his, though, no doubt about that. And the Bureau would give him resources. Lots of resources.

"Zoric was able to identify all four bodies," the sheriff added.

"I want him back in here," Alvirez said. "I want him to ID the bodies again."

"I doubt he's going to want to do that."

"Too bad."

The sheriff began to walk away. "And get someone up on that roof," Alvirez added, pointing to the hole in the ceiling glass. "I'd like some pictures."

Alvirez adopted a brooding scowl. "What are you thinking, boss?" his partner asked him once the sheriff had gotten out of earshot.

"I'm thinking these boys came looking for trouble," Alvirez said. "They made an effort to get the teacher out of the building. Why?"

The sheriff reentered the pool area, this time bringing along a man in his mid-forties wearing a sweat suit.

"I'm Agent Alvirez," the Bureau man introduced himself, extending his hand. "This is my partner, Agent Jenkins."

"Vladimir Zoric," the gym teacher replied in an Eastern European accent.

"I'm sure this is hard," Alvirez began, preparing to write on a small pad of paper, "and I know you've already done it. But we would really appreciate it if you'd identify the victims for us."

Zoric pointed to the closest body. "Mark Williams," he said flatly. He glanced over at the farther diving board. "Donald Brick." He motioned to the boy whose ear was bandaged. "Kenny Dollard. All 7th Graders. The older boy, the one whose head was in the water. That's Kenny's brother, Jack."

"They were all your students?" Alvirez asked.

"Jack used to be," Zoric replied. "The other three are in my gym class, yes."

"The victim you identified as Kenny," Alvirez continued. "It looks like he suffered a prior injury to the side of his head."

"A fight during an ice-skating trip," Zoric explained. "A student named Owen Wheeler struck him with a metal pole."

"Why was that?"

"These three ganged up on him a lot, I think. Kenny, Mark, and Donald. Kenny was the leader, though. I saw them confront Owen on the ice. I reckon Owen got sick of it and decided to fight back."

The bells went off in Alvirez' mind. "This Owen Wheeler," he asked, "was he present in the pool tonight?"

"Yes. I was training him."

"Did you see him exit the building?"

"No. I don't know what happened to him."

Alvirez turned to the sheriff. "You're working the phones from the school office, right? Let's radio over there and see if they've reached anyone at the Wheeler residence."

The agent returned his attention to Mr. Zoric.

"You say you witnessed the confrontation between Owen Wheeler and these three boys. Didn't you try to stop it?"

"It happened too fast. Then the body in the ice was discovered."

Alvirez blinked. "Body?"

"The kids found a dead man frozen in the pond."

Alvirez turned to the sheriff, raised an eyebrow. "We've had a string of attacks the last two-and-a-half weeks," the sheriff explained. "Four dead."

The FBI agent felt tempted to explode in the sheriff's face: _Why didn't you tell me this right away, you blubbering idiot?_ Instead he simply asked, "You have a lead investigator?"

"Detective O'Conner. But he hasn't checked in today and no one's been able to reach him."

Charles Alvirez couldn't help himself. He turned away, and smiled. _This case_, he concluded, _is going to make my career._

* * *

><p>Fifteen minutes later, the two FBI agents, joined by four Los Alamos police officers, knocked on the door to Owen Wheeler's apartment. The mother, already drunk or well past it, introduced herself and let the men in. She gave them permission to examine Owen's room. Alvirez proceeded there at once.<p>

He discovered the sort of furnishings typical in low-income housing: beat-up dresser, ancient TV. A cheap telescope featured prominently in a corner with decent-sized windows. Alvirez went over and looked onto the courtyard below. "Owen, Owen," he whispered, "what _have_ you been watching?"

Doug entered behind him. "The mother keeps insisting that she hasn't seen Owen since this morning."

"But she smells like she was passed out," Alvirez observed. "Owen could have come and gone, and her none the wiser."

One of the officers came in. "Agent Alvirez," he said, "this is the third time I've been to this complex in the last two weeks." He pointed out the window to a first floor apartment on the other side of the courtyard. "The body pulled out of Copes Pond, that's where the guy lived. And the woman bitten by that girl, she lived right next door."

Alvirez felt overwhelmed with fragmentary data. Was there no one in the Los Alamos PD who could give him a systematic briefing concerning the events that had been going on here? Detective O'Conner could, apparently. And he was missing. One thing was certain, though. Owen Wheeler had been present at the pool where four students had been killed. Two residents in Owen Wheeler's apartment complex had also been attacked.

"I want an APB put out on Owen Wheeler," Alvirez informed the Los Alamos officer. "Let's list him as a potential kidnapping victim for now, being held by suspects in the pool slayings. That ought to get his picture on the 11 o'clock news. Make it happen."

The officer pulled out his radio. Alvirez returned to examining the room, being careful not to touch anything. Space theme wallpaper and mobile. Clothes all seemed present in the closet. No backpack. No schoolbooks. A piece of notebook paper with Morse code symbols. A candy wrapper with a Shakespeare quote: "I must be gone and live, or stay and die." A heart was drawn under the quote. It contained the names Abby and Owen. It did not look like a boy's handwriting.

"Let's designate this whole apartment a crime scene," Alvirez announced. "Get some investigators in here ASAP."

He returned to the living room, asked Mrs. Wheeler a simple question: "Does Owen have a girlfriend?"

Mrs. Wheeler never got a chance to answer. Another officer burst in from the hallway. "There's sign of forced entry in the adjacent apartment," he informed them.

Alvirez and his partner ran next door. The entryway appeared to have been kicked in. The agents entered, guns drawn, with the Los Alamos police close behind. They turned on the lights, discovered a disheveled dwelling containing a few mattresses, dirty dishes, and little else. Walking deeper into the apartment, Alvirez looked down and stopped: a small, bloody footprint was clearly evident on the floor.

"Looks like we're calling this a crime scene, too," Alvirez said.

* * *

><p>Two hours later Alvirez could move freely about the residence registered to one Richard Zimmerman of Champagne, Illinois. The blood pattern on the bathroom door stood out as the apartment's defining feature, of course. There were bloody drag marks on the floor as well. <em>Someone's<em> life had ended badly at the end of this hallway.

"We've found Detective O'Conner's car in the parking lot," an officer finally informed Agent Alvirez.

_One less detective_, Alvirez thought. The (probably) deceased man had kept good notes, though. O'Conner's file had been brought to Alvirez from the Los Alamos police station. It made clear O'Conner had been working on an assumption of two suspects: a father-daughter team. The father had been accounted for. The daughter had not.

"I think he came in overconfident," Doug offered. "His main suspect died at the hospital, right? Now he's just looking for a little girl. It would be easy for her to surprise him if she's as vicious as Larry Summers says. Plus O'Conner would be hesitant to use deadly force on a minor. That might have given her all the advantage she needed."

Alvirez considered the blood on the bathroom door. It looked like arterial spatter. He supposed that made sense given what they knew about two of the other victims: they'd been bitten in the neck. Yet strangely, what struck Alvirez as most significant was Summers' testimony that the girl had attacked his wife Virginia by jumping from a pine tree. Alvirez had gone out into the courtyard and studied the tree. There was no obvious way to climb it. And if the girl could get all the way up that pine, she could easily have gotten onto the roof of the Los Alamos Middle School swimming pool.

Two persons of interest: Owen and the girl next door. Alvirez could guess that the children had linked up, but he had no proof. What he needed was something definite, something that made it clear these two kids were connected.

A crime scene investigator walked up to him carrying a freezer-size zip-loc bag. The bag contained a single piece of parchment paper. Written on the paper was the following message:

Hi Owen. Good morning

I am in the bathroom.

Please do not come in.

Want to hang out with

me again tonight?

I really like you.

Love Abby

_Abby, darling,_ Alvirez thought. _I've got you._

* * *

><p>Twenty hours later Alvirez convened the first meeting of the FBI's new Los Alamos Task Force. They gathered in the local police station, Alvirez and his partner, plus seven additional agents and twenty local officers. These included four detectives and the sheriff.<p>

Alvirez had not slept during the night, but he didn't feel tired. He had been too busy interviewing witnesses and assembling a timeline of recent events. Detective O'Conner had kept _really_ good notes. That helped a lot. And the one eyewitness to an actual attack, the man from Owen Wheeler's complex named Larry Summers, had proved invaluable.

The agent wished he were taller than 5'8", but there was nothing he could do about it. He drew himself up as best he could and called the meeting to order.

"I understand most of you knew Detective Sean O'Conner," he began. "From what you tell me, he was an outstanding officer, and he died in the line of duty. But we need to focus on the case he left behind, catch these people before more lives are lost. The time to mourn Detective O'Conner will come in its proper season."

Alvirez directed his audience's attention to the chalkboard that he had spent the day filling in. "Some of this is guesswork," he acknowledged, "so we'll make corrections as our information improves. And I'm willing to be corrected as we go if you see something wrong. A lot of this is based on Detective O'Conner's work over the last two-and-a-half weeks. It really seems like he was on top of this case." _And then he got himself killed by a twelve-year-old_, Alvirez didn't bother adding out loud.

**Thursday, February 17 Abby and her father rent apartment**

"John Doe, a white male in his mid-fifties, uses a stolen Illinois driver's license to check into unit 302 of the Desert Meadows Apartment Complex. This is a police sketch stemming from possible previous crimes in Indiana, Illinois, and Oklahoma. The apartment manager ID'd this guy as our John Doe, as did Larry Summers. The identification is uncertain because after being captured the John Doe doused his face with acid. The suspect seems to have had a daughter named Abby, approximately twelve years old, with long blonde hair and a penchant for going barefoot in the snow. We've found the John Doe's fingerprints all over the apartment, as well as the prints of a child we're assuming is Abby. Living in unit 304, directly adjacent to Abby and her dad, is a twelve-year-old boy named Owen Wheeler."

**Tuesday, February 22 Scott Wilson killed, probably by Abby's father**

"The victim, a 19-year-old white male, was last seen alive shopping for groceries at Martin Brothers. Three hours later his dead body was discovered in woods west of town. His neck was punctured with a blade and his body drained of blood. Ligature marks on his ankles indicate he may have been hanged upside down to facilitate the draining process. The victim's blood was found spilled on the snow near his body. We have strong reason to believe our John Doe is the perpetrator given his possible prior history of offenses, as well as the gym bag of implements eventually found in his possession."

**Wednesday, February 23 (?) Jack Browning killed**

"The date of death is uncertain for this victim, a 30-year-old white male whose body was discovered in Copes Pond on March 4. Mr. Browning was a resident of Desert Meadows Apartment Complex, which you'll recall is where our John Doe and his daughter had just moved in. The victim was found wearing a jogging suit, and witnesses say he normally jogged at night. This combined with the fact that Mr. Browning did not show up for work on Thursday, February 24 makes us assume he was killed the evening of February 23. We have been unable to locate where the murder took place. Like Scott Wilson, Jack Browning's body was completely drained of blood. But instead of a knife wound in the neck, this victim was bitten. The bite marks are human. The victim's neck was also broken."

**Friday, February 25 (?) Abby and Owen have met by this date**

"We know very little about the relationship between Owen Wheeler and Abby. Abby does not seem to have attended school. Owen's mother did not even know that a girl had moved in next door, much less that her son had become friends with her. But we found two handwritten copies of Morse code, one in Owen's room and one in Abby's apartment in the room adjacent to Owen's bedroom. It is possible the two children communicated through the wall. We went to the school library and found that on February 25, Owen Wheeler checked out a book that teaches Morse code. So it seems likely the two children have met by this date."

**Thursday, March 3 Abby's father kills Joshua Hendrickson, then himself **

"Our John Doe gets into the back of a car being driven by one James Strong. Mr. Strong picks up a friend, Joshua Hendrickson, and proceeds to a gas station. Mr. Strong gets out of the car at the gas station. It seems John Doe then fought with Mr. Hendrickson, gained control of the vehicle, and attempted to drive away. The vehicle is struck by a truck, killing Mr. Hendrickson and sending the car into a ditch. John Doe, trapped in the damaged vehicle, pours acid on his face before police arrive on the scene. Investigators find a gym bag believed to belong to the suspect. Among its contents are a folding knife, nylon ropes, a pulley system, a plastic jug, and a large funnel. These items may have been used in the February 22 murder of Scott Wilson. Detective O'Conner attempts to question John Doe in the hospital. During the visit, a girl we are assuming is Abby enters the hospital and inquires at the front desk about her father. Key details of the nurse's description: 12 years old, long blonde hair, bare feet. The girl exits the hospital before Detective O'Conner can go to the lobby and question her. While O'Conner is on the phone at the nurse's station, John Doe leaps to his death from the window of his 10th story hospital room. He leaves behind this note written on the detective's pad: "I'm sory Abby."

**Friday, March 4 Abby attacks Virginia Summers**

"This attack is critical because it's the only one we have a witness for. On Friday evening Larry Summers and his wife, Virginia, both residents of the Desert Meadows complex, are walking through the courtyard outside their apartment. A girl we are assuming is Abby jumps onto Virginia from a tall pine tree, bites her neck, and flees after being wrestled by Mr. Summers. Key details of Mr. Summer's description: about 12 years old, long blonde hair, bare feet. He also describes Abby as feral, like a wild animal. This contradicts the nurse's testimony. She described Abby as quiet and quite fragile looking. But the approximate age, long blonde hair, and bare feet all match up."

**Saturday, March 5 Virginia Summers and Patricia Willis killed in hospital fire**

"On Saturday morning Detective O'Conner visits Virginia Summers' hospital room and begins questioning Larry Summers in the hallway. A nurse named Patricia Willis enters the room. The room suddenly bursts into flames, killing Virginia Summers and the nurse. Detective O'Conner was a direct witness to these events. The cause of the fire is under investigation, but obviously the circumstances must be labeled as suspicious. Larry and Virginia Summers were the only surviving witnesses to an attack. What seems like an attempt on their lives is made the very next day. Mr. Summers survives because Detective O'Conner had pulled him out of the hospital room. Mr. Summers is now under police protection."

**Sunday, March 6 Detective Sean O'Conner killed in Abby's apartment**

"Detective O'Conner drives to the Desert Meadows apartments. For unknown reasons he engages in a forced entry of Abby's apartment. He appears to have been killed in the bathroom at the end of the apartment hallway. His neck was bitten, and his body drained of blood. The bite marks are human. In addition to being bitten and exsanguinated, the detective's neck was broken. There are two sets of footprints in the blood at the crime scene: one a girl's bare feet, which we are assuming is Abby, another made by a boy's shoes, which we are assuming is Owen Wheeler. Critically, a fingerprint of Owen's _in the victim's blood_ has been found on the bathroom doorknob. This print clearly places Owen Wheeler in Abby's apartment during or shortly after the murder of Detective O'Conner.

**Monday, March 7 Four boys killed in Los Alamos Middle School swimming pool**

"Yesterday evening, Jack Dollard, Kenneth Dollard, Mark Williams, and Donald Brick, four students with a history of prior conflict with Owen Wheeler, set fire to a dumpster outside the Los Alamos Middle School swimming facility. When the gym teacher goes to investigate, the four boys lock him outside. The boys proceed to the pool, where they order all the children present to exit the facility. Owen Wheeler was one of the children present. The gym teacher circled the building and reentered, called 911, and went to the pool, where he discovered the dismembered remains of Jack, Kenneth, Mark, and Donald. There was no sign of Owen Wheeler. Owen is the only child present in the swimming pool that remains unaccounted for."

**Monday, March 7 – Tuesday, March 8 Beginning of investigation**

"Additional indications of a connection between Abby and Owen. This note was found in Owen's room. It says, 'I must be gone and live, or stay and die.' It's a quote from Romeo and Juliet, which Owen was studying in class. But the note is not written in Owen's handwriting. Under the quote a heart is drawn, with the names Abby and Owen inside. And in Abby's apartment this note was found:

Hi Owen. Good morning

I am in the bathroom.

Please do not come in.

Want to hang out with

me again tonight?

I really like you.

Love Abby

"A white blood-soaked dress belonging to Mrs. Wheeler was found in Abby's apartment. Abby's fingerprints have been discovered in the bathroom in Owen's apartment. Bloodstains have been found on two of Owen's sweaters in the Wheeler's laundry. Abby and Owen's fingerprints have both been found on the jungle gym in the apartment courtyard. Both children's prints are present in the basement room where Detective O'Conner's body was discovered this morning. Bare human footprints were found in the snow on the roof of the Los Alamos Middle School, adjacent to the window that was clearly broken _from the outside_. The footprints are the same size as the ones leading away from the attack on Virginia Summers. So this may place Abby at the scene of the pool deaths as well."

Agent Alvirez paused for a moment to let his audience digest the information he had fed them. He watched them study the order of events on the board, weigh whether or not the sequence made sense. Too many guesses, Alvirez realized. Too many unanswered questions. But the massacre in the pool had happened only 23 hours ago. He figured their progress was good in most respects, given how long they had actually been working the problem. There was one glaring weakness, however.

"Detective O'Conner," Alvirez continued, "was working on the assumption that John Doe and Abby were involved in some kind of cult. We're going to avoid using that word, as it implies motive. But the detective was asking the critical question: Who else is involved besides Abby and Owen? There are good reasons to conclude that there are other suspects, people who for lack of a better phrase we will call 'Abby's Gang.'

"The most obvious reason is the condition of the four dead boys at the swimming pool. The bodies are torn to pieces. No evidence of gunfire or explosives. I was thinking swords, but the coroner says no. _Something_ ripped those kids apart, and we have no idea what. I reckon we can conclude one thing, though. Even if Abby and Owen were both present at the scene, there's simply no way two 12-year-old children could inflict that kind of damage, especially in so short a period of time.

"There is the final condition of the bodies of Jack Browning and Sean O'Conner. Both bodies were completely drained of blood. Even if we assume the worst, that Abby has been raised to feed on human blood, it can't account for the bodies being exsanguinated. A child could drink maybe two or three pints of blood at most. Where did the rest of the blood go? And how was it all removed from the bodies? The heart gives out before it can pump all of a person's blood from an arterial wound. Some sort of suction is needed to completely void the circulatory system. And both men had their necks broken. If we assume Larry Summers' description is accurate, Abby may be unusually strong for her size. But no child is going to be able to break the neck of an adult male.

"There is the hospital fire, of course, which I suspect to have been set my gang members. Finally there is the location of Detective O'Conner's body. He was killed in Abby's apartment, but found three flights down in a back storage room. It seems unlikely that Abby and Owen would have been able to move the body on their own, especially without drawing attention."

Alvirez stopped again, this time indicating that he was finished. One of the Los Alamos detectives quickly raised his hand.

"You posit the existence of 'Abby's Gang,' but do you have any direct evidence that others are involved?"

"No," Alvirez admitted, "and that's a problem. I was really expecting Abby's apartment to produce other fingerprints, but so far all we've got are Abby, her father, and Owen."

"These cases in other states," the man continued, "was there ever an indication that people besides Abby and her father were involved?"

Alvirez shook his head. "I understand where you're going, but what other conclusion can we come to? There simply have to be additional adults involved. I'm guessing Owen Wheeler got mixed up with a bad crowd, the sort of crowd that made Kenny and his pals look like a bunch of Brownies. That crowd killed Owen's enemies for him. Now Owen has gone off with that gang, whether willingly or unwillingly we cannot say. Based upon his interactions with Abby, I'm guessing willingly."

"You don't actually know her name is Abby," a police officer pointed out.

Doug piped in. "That's true," he admitted. "But two different witnesses saw the girl and gave similar descriptions. Then we've got the name 'Abby' written three times, once by her father and twice, it seems, by herself. It's a plausible assumption that they're the same person."

"Why did you declare Owen Wheeler a kidnapping victim?" another detective asked.

"Because we need the media's help on this," Alvirez explained. "There are only two people we know for certain that we're looking for: Abby and Owen. But Owen Wheeler is the only one we know much about. We've got plenty of photographs of him. We need the papers and the TV news to keep putting those pictures out there.

"Which reminds me," he added, "we need to control the media leaks. We dribble out information in small packets, enough to keep the case front page every morning. That gets the Wheeler kid's picture printed day after day. I say tonight we start mentioning details about the pool killings. Tomorrow we bring up possible linkages between the eleven deaths. Save the blood drinking for Thursday. That'll definitely get us back on TV if the kid hasn't been found yet. If we have to go to Friday…"

An officer burst into the briefing room and made an announcement: "Owen Wheeler has just been spotted in the Denver train station."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Denver**

Abby had kissed him twice, once on the cheek and once on the lips. Did it count if the girl kissed you? Or did _you_ have to kiss _her_? Owen thought it counted. But he wondered how it would be different if he kissed her. Would she let him kiss her? Would she keep her eyes open? Would she smile afterward? He really hoped she would smile.

The sun had set half an hour ago, and Owen could see lights on the horizon through the train window. He wondered if Abby had awakened by now, but he did not knock on the trunk at his feet. He had seen Abby do something unpleasant when awakened unexpectedly.

Abby had put her hand on his once. That wasn't the same as holding hands, but then Abby had actually held his hand at the end of their first date. Better yet, she had slept naked in his bed. He had even touched her stomach briefly. And she had taken his hand and placed it on her face. That had been great. But she hadn't let him look at her. He took a peak eventually, of course, when she was changing into his mom's dress. That had been great, too. But he had only seen her backside. He had walked away before she could turn around and catch him looking.

What made Owen proudest wasn't the two kisses. It was the two hugs. He had hugged Abby outside the arcade, right after she had gotten sick. He had hugged her for a really long time, and she hadn't pulled away. Then he had hugged her in his apartment, when she was covered with her own blood. That one had been even better, because that time he could tell Abby was happy.

But he wondered if either time Abby had hugged him in response. Owen couldn't remember for certain, and it bothered him. He wanted to hug her again, and he wanted her to hug him back. Hard enough that he could remember for certain. He wondered how he could manage a hug. They were going steady. Did that mean he could hug her whenever? Or did he need a special reason?

Abby had to be awake. She didn't seem to be stirring, but Owen thought he could sense her presence more strongly now. It was a strange thing, this ability to feel when she was near. At first Owen had thought he was imagining it. But it had grown stronger over time. First through the wall, then in the courtyard, finally in the same building. What had really killed was when Abby had left. That sudden loss of her presence, that terrible absence, had ripped him apart. That was when he had known for certain that he wasn't imagining it.

Owen figured it was one of Abby's powers. He ran through the list: She never got old, she didn't get cold. He reckoned she didn't get sick, either, and wondered what would happen if she got injured. Did she have special healing powers? She was super-strong, she could make her presence felt, she could bite people's heads off. She couldn't go in sunlight, but that wasn't a power. More a weakness. She could only eat blood. She had to be invited in. Owen remembered Abby entering his room without disturbing the snow on his windowsill, and wondered if her explanation was for real: _I flew._

Could Abby beat Spider-Man? Spider-Man had Spidey-sense, so Abby wouldn't be able to surprise him. And she could only fight him at night. Spider-Man was super-strong, but so was Abby. Spider-Man could climb walls. Never getting old didn't help you in a fight. What would Abby do if Spider-Man shot his web at her? Would she be able to get away? Owen didn't like the idea of Spider-Man beating Abby. He kept trying to think of ways she might win.

He figured Abby would beat Batman, unless Batman had the Batmobile. Darth Vader would probably be too much for her. He could use the Force to hold her still and chop her in half with his lightsaber. But that didn't matter much, because Darth Vader wasn't real.

Owen's stomach growled. He was so hungry. He wasn't sure why he hadn't packed any food. They had been in such a hurry to leave. This train ride had gone on all day. Owen had watched other passengers pull out food and eat it. If only he could buy something on the train. He had over $400 in his pocket, money that Abby had given him. But there were no snack bars.

He wondered if Abby was hungry. This brought up the unpleasant image of the policeman's face, which Owen tried to push away. It was hard. The man stared at him, dying, while Abby drank his blood. And Owen let him die. Not just that, though. Owen distracted the policeman at the critical moment, saving Abby and giving her the element of surprise. Owen did more than watch the man die. He helped kill him.

The bloody kiss made it official. "Owen, I have to go away," she said, her face and body covered in the policeman's blood. Then she kissed him on the lips. Some of the blood got on him. So they traded blood at last. Their pact had been sealed. But it hadn't been Abby's blood.

What a disaster that had been! He had cut his thumb in Tommy's hideout, hoping Abby would do the same. But she had transformed into a monster, licked his blood from the floor, and attacked his neighbor. Owen could not help wondering how things might have turned out differently if he hadn't cut his thumb. What had he been thinking, anyway?

That was when he had discovered that Abby was a vampire. With that critical piece of information all the mysteries made sense: why Abby walked barefoot in the snow, why her windows were always covered, why she didn't go to school, why the neighbors kept dying. His girlfriend was a vampire. _His girlfriend was a vampire._

And she had come back for him. In an instant the awfulness of her absence, combined with the equal terror of being drowned by Kenny's brother, had been replaced by her perfect face. Owen didn't care about Kenny and the others getting killed. The policeman bothered him. But not Kenny. At the decisive moment in the locker room Owen had been unable to use his knife. He still couldn't figure out why. Abby had rescued him, though. Owen was glad. They had gotten what they deserved.

Leaving his mom made him feel guilty. She would be worried about him. She would be alone. Maybe he could call her tomorrow, let her know he was OK. He could call around 4:30. That was after she got home but before she started drinking. Owen wondered if she had done the dishes in the sink. It would be easier for her to keep up, now that he was gone.

The train entered a large city, which Owen figured had to be Denver. He wondered how he was going to get Abby out of the trunk. If she exited now, one of the other passengers might see her. But getting someone to carry the trunk off would attract a lot of attention. And then he'd still face the issue of getting her out without anyone noticing.

Abby made the decision for him, tapping the letters O-U-T in Morse code. Owen glanced around. He was at the end of this particular car, and no one was looking back at him. He reached down quickly and unlatched the trunk.

The interior revealed Abby curled up like a baby, with blankets, toys, and jewelry tucked in around her. She looked up at Owen and gave him a soft, golden smile, then sprang from the trunk with surprising quickness and closed the lid behind her.

Just like that she was next to him: his girlfriend, his Abby, the person he had run away with. She snuggled up against him, took his hand, and smiled again. "Hey," she said.

"Hey," Owen replied. He returned her grin with one of his own. Maybe this was better than a hug. He could _see_ her face light up at seeing him. Such a remarkable transformation. The continual sadness that weighed upon Abby was pushed into the shadows, at least for the moment. And Owen was the cause.

But then her expression changed. She glanced out the window as the train slowed into the station, and her grip on his hand tightened. "Let's go," she urged, leaping up and plucking her trunk from its resting place.

Owen got ahead of Abby in the aisle and lent her a hand, though she hardly needed the help. But it would look strange if he didn't at least pretend to assist her. They moved forward quickly and were at the door when the train finally stopped. A moment later they were through and onto the platform.

Abby drove the two of the them forward despite their large burden, keeping up with the adults streaming into the station proper. Owen didn't know if she had been here before, but she acted like she knew where she was going. There were steps and concrete pillars and a long concourse. Everything seemed oversized: the people, the roof, the lights on the ceiling. They passed a pair of policemen. Owen refused to look at them, and they paid the kids no mind.

They exited the station onto a side street and plopped onto a bench. Abby began to relax a bit. It was quite cold here in Denver, colder than Los Alamos, and Owen was hungry. He wanted to find some food, and wondered suddenly if Abby realized he needed to eat every day. But of course she must know that. She hadn't always been a vampire – had she? And she had lived with her "Father." He had been a regular person like Owen.

Upon further reflection, however, Owen realized he didn't actually know that. He had only seen Abby's dad a few times, and it had always been at night. Could he have been a vampire, too? Abby had never really discussed him, except when she had said, "He wasn't my father." She had used the past tense to describe him, and Owen had noticed. Then Owen had seen the filmstrip. The father had aged and Abby hadn't. So he must not have been a vampire, after all.

Owen pushed this issue aside. There were more pressing matters to think about. Like what were they going to do now? He had been on a train all day, headed to a strange city, yet he had never considered what he was going to do once he got there.

He had no choice but to think about it now. Abby didn't get cold, but he did. He was wearing his oversized silver coat, his hat, and his scarf, but none of it seemed to matter. Denver was _cold!_ A bitter wind plucked at his thin flesh, forcing Owen to conclude at last that they would need to find a place to stay. Or at least Owen would need a place. For the first time it occurred to him that he might be something of a burden to his girlfriend.

"What are we going to do?" Owen asked, his teeth shivering.

Abby produced a wan smile, so utterly unlike the look she had given him back on the train. This was the expression Abby usually wore, a face of sadness and fatigue and crushing age. "Someone will offer us a ride," she finally said.

"How do you know?"

"Trust me," she declared.

Owen kicked his feet. He wondered what time it was. He was so hungry. He thought of warm beds and warm food. Even his mother's cooking started to seem appealing to him, and he wondered what she had made for dinner tonight. _I guess I should have brought a sleeping bag,_ he thought. _And a pillow, too._

"Hey, kids, need a lift?"

Owen opened his eyes, saw that a car had pulled up in front of them. The driver, a man that seemed to be about his dad's age, had rolled down the passenger window and was shouting into the night breeze.

Abby got up and approached the car. Owen was confused. Didn't she know you weren't supposed to talk to strangers? But then he remembered this was Abby, and he wondered: does Abby _eat_ strangers?

"Do you have a house where we can sleep over?" Abby asked.

A strange look came into the man's eyes, and Owen decided on the spot that he hated him.

Abby poked her head partway through the open window. "Do you have any dinner?" she added.

"Sure, kids, we can get something to eat," the man announced. He hopped out of his vehicle quickly and lifted Abby's luggage into the trunk. Then he was ushering Owen into the back seat. Abby got in up front.

The whole process happened so quickly. One moment Owen was freezing on a bench, the next he was tucked into the back of a fast-moving car that had left the train station behind in favor of the highway.

Owen was warm now, but he didn't care. He didn't like the way the man kept looking at Abby. Abby only made it worse by smiling back at him. Owen didn't think there was anything genuine in that smile, but the man didn't seem to notice.

They exited the highway and pulled into a MacDonald's drive-through. "What would you like?" the man asked.

Owen stared through the window at the menu. He no longer felt hungry.

"Owen?" Abby asked.

"Cheeseburger and fries," he finally replied, his voice sullen.

"What about you?" the man asked Abby.

"I'll have the same," she replied.

The driver paid for their food and handed it to Abby. She in turn passed the bag back to Owen.

"You can go ahead and eat," the driver suggested to Abby.

"I'll eat later," she replied.

In ten minutes they pulled into a driveway belonging to a small, single-story home. "You have to say I can come in," Abby suddenly piped up. "You have to say it: you can come in."

The driver looked puzzled, but he acceded to Abby's request: "You can come in," he said.

They parked in the one-car garage. The man led Abby and Owen quickly into the kitchen, where he plopped Owen down at a small dining table. His bag of MacDonald's sat in front of him, untouched.

The man began pacing about the adjacent living room, clearly agitated. Owen scowled at him. "I want to leave," he informed Abby.

Abby put a hand on his shoulder and sighed. "Eat your dinner, Owen," she said. Turning to their host, she said, "Give me a minute." She left Owen at the table, walked through the living room into what Owen guessed was a bedroom, and closed the door.

Owen glowered and sulked, but the man paid him no mind. Owen didn't like what Abby had said before they had entered the garage. Abby had spoken those same words to Owen on the night she had entered his bedroom. They were important.

After about five minutes the man followed Abby. Owen pulled out his French-fries and began nibbling. At the fourth French-fry the screaming began. Owen stared at the bedroom door, chewed, and swallowed. By the seventh French-fry the screaming stopped. Owen kept watching the door, waiting for something else to happen. He unwrapped his cheeseburgers and ate them.

It was only when the food had all been consumed that Owen began crying. He got up from the table, walked over to the bedroom door, and collapsed in tears. The image of the policeman's dying gaze thrust itself into Owen's awareness, and his weeping grew stronger. He and Abby were alone in a frozen city, he was so tired, and Abby had just killed someone else. Owen wasn't sorry the loser was dead. He was sorry about death. Sorry that so much dying filled the world.

Abby came out quietly and knelt in front of Owen. She was wrapped in a bloody sheet, with the remains of her dinner still covering her face and hands. She stayed that way for several minutes, till Owen's crying had reduced to random sobs. The look on her face was pure Abby: old and distant and unbearably sad, combined with a beauty and tenderness that broke Owen's heart.

"I do it because I have to," Abby whispered. "To survive." Then she reached a blood-soaked hand toward Owen and gently grasped his chin. "Owen, be me a little. Just for a little while, be me."

Owen's vision changed, and he was no longer where he was. A gaunt, hooded figure approached Abby's sleeping form. The man shook her awake, threw her onto her stomach, and began doing something horrible. Abby screamed, Abby fought, Abby tried to get away. The man was too strong. Abby clawed at the sheet in futility, her cries of pain ripping the night. Then a fresh agony tore into the child, and as she screamed Owen screamed with her: the monster had bitten her shoulder.

Owen jerked away, and now he was back on the floor with Abby, rubbing his shoulder where the teeth had torn flesh. Except he hadn't been bitten. It was Abby who had been bitten, so very long ago. And Owen had felt it happen.

He studied Abby's face in horror, but she couldn't see him. Her vision was cast into another life, another age. Such a vacant, empty gaze, one Owen thought could crush time itself. It was more than gloom and sorrow and weariness. It was despair.

Owen did the only thing he knew: he hugged Abby. He grabbed her with all his might. And when Abby failed to return his embrace, Owen realized why. The reason she didn't hug him back was because she wasn't really present. She wasn't in the _now_. Her thoughts and feelings lay in the distant past, swallowed by a chasm of charnel centuries deeper than the one Luke and Leia had swung across. At the deepest part of her heart, in the very core of her being where things mattered most, Abby was a wasteland.

Thus it happened, while crumpled on the floor of a strange house in Denver, that Owen Wheeler discovered the meaning of a word that had always puzzled him: the word "undead."

* * *

><p>A half hour later Abby emerged from the bathroom freshly showered. She wore the same hooded sweatshirt and miniskirt she had been wearing before. The clothes were unstained, an unpleasant observation Owen tried hard to push away.<p>

"There are still over seven hours until sunrise," Abby began. "And there's lots to do. We need to search the house for everything we might want to take. His wallet, certainly. Any loose cash. Jewelry, handguns, ammunition, other valuables. Anything small that we can sell later."

Owen stared at Abby blankly, uncertain why she was saying they should steal.

"We need money," Abby explained. "With enough cash we can take taxis and stay in motels. This is important because we need to keep moving, and we need shelter." Owen looked down at this, and Abby clarified. "We _both_ need shelter," she emphasized. "You need warmth and I need shade. It's a matter of survival. So you need to search this house. And you need to search it well."

"What about you?" Owen asked.

Abby walked over to the living room curtains and glanced outside. "I get urges sometimes. Urges to do certain things. I can't really explain it. Right now I'm feeling the need to set up a hiding place. I'm going to head into the mountains and find a cave. I'll be back before dawn."

Owen watched as Abby carried her trunk in from the garage and plopped it onto the kitchen floor. "I need most of the cash I gave you," she said. "Keep a hundred dollars." Abby stashed the money in the trunk, burying it under the blankets. Then she made a quick sweep of the house, found a sleeping bag and a small tent. She piled these in as well. Finally she began throwing in canned food, and followed this up with a pocketknife and a box of matches. She squeezed the lid shut and fixed her gaze on Owen.

"It's not enough given the weather, but it's a start. Give me a week and I can build a camp that will keep you in a pinch. If we have to flee to the mountains."

Owen pondered this thought uneasily. He had never gone camping before.

"How are you going to get there and back in time?" Owen asked.

"Watch," Abby said.

She hauled the trunk into the back yard and glanced up. Then she pecked Owen on the cheek, turned away from him, pulled off her sweatshirt, and wrapped it around her waist. Two wings extended quickly from her shoulder blades. She bent over, picked up the trunk, and flew into the night.

As Owen watched her disappear, he comforted himself with a new conviction: Abby would kick Spider-Man's butt.

* * *

><p>Owen awoke on the living room couch. By the sunlight filtering through the closed curtains he guessed it was late afternoon. He found a note on the coffee table:<p>

Hi Owen!

I'm in the bathroom.

Please do not come in.

Tonight we have to move

to a new place.

I'm so glad you came

with me.

Love Abby

Owen glanced at the bedroom door. How could Abby sleep in there, with the guy's dead body so close? Owen had covered the corpse while searching the room, so at least they didn't have to look at it. But he certainly wouldn't want to sleep near it.

He wandered into the kitchen and began to scrounge for food. He couldn't find any candy, so he settled for milk and Cheerios. Breakfast in the afternoon. He wondered if this was going to become normal.

Glancing at the clock on the oven, Owen noticed it was almost five. Now would probably be a good time to call his mother. He finished his cereal, lifted the phone off its wall receiver, and dialed home.

"Hello?" his mother's voice answered after the fourth ring.

"Hi, Mom," Owen replied. "It's me, Owen."

"Owen!" his mother cried. "I'm so glad to hear your voice. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Mom. That's why I called. I wanted you to know I was OK."

"And Abby, sweetheart? Is Abby OK, too?"

This question confused Owen. "How do you know about Abby?" he asked.

"Mothers have eyes on the back of their heads," she replied. "Abby's the pretty girl who moved in next door to us."

"You saw her?"

"I saw you both in the courtyard, dear. But I didn't want to say anything. I figured you'd tell me about her when you were ready. Is she nice?"

"She's great," Owen answered, still confused. He hadn't expected to be talking to his mom about Abby.

"Listen, I understand if you don't want to come home right now. Things have been really hard, and I haven't been a good mother. But I promise to be a better parent to you, Owen. I want you to know that. I promise to be better."

Owen felt torn by this. He wanted to comfort his mom, tell her that she had done OK. But the truth was she hadn't, and he didn't feel like lying.

"If you're going to stay away from home awhile," his mother continued, "there's a few things that might be helpful to know. When you need toothpaste and soap and stuff like that, K-Mart is a cheap place to get them. But you can always get them at a grocery store or a drug store, too. If you need clothes, you can go to Sears. They have good selections in your size. And when you need to wash your clothes, you'll need to get quarters to use at the laundromat. You can get the detergent at K-Mart, too. Hot water for white clothes, cold water for dark clothes. That's important, Owen. Remember to keep whites and darks separate."

"Uh, sure, Mom," Owen said, more puzzled than ever. This was so not the conversation he had planned on having.

"Listen to me, Owen," his mother added, her tone finally becoming desperate. "You're not in trouble, do you understand me? You're not in trouble. You can come home anytime. You're always welcome to come home, do you understand?"

"I'm not going back," Owen replied. "We have our own life, now."

"I'm so sorry about the drinking," his mother interjected, and this caught Owen cold. She had never been willing to discuss her drinking. "I'm going to stop, do you hear me? I've already stopped. I'll never drink again. Just come home, baby. Please come home."

"Goodbye, Mom," Owen said, but then another voice came over the line.

"Hey, buddy, it's good to hear from you."

"Dad?" Owen asked. "You're home?"

"Of course I am. We're worried about you. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about the question you asked me the other night. You asked me if there's such a thing as evil. That's a really good question, Owen, and I've been thinking about it since you asked me. I think there is such a thing as evil in the world, Owen. I really do. But _you're_ not evil. Do you understand me? You're not evil."

"I closed the door, Dad," Owen replied. "I closed the door." He shut his eyes tight and hung up the phone.

* * *

><p>Abby stirred from her sleep as soon as the sun went down. She came into the kitchen and put a hand on Owen's shoulder. "Hey," she said.<p>

"Hey," Owen replied. He'd been in a really bad mood since the conversation with his parents, but Abby cheered him up. He showed her the small pile of loot he had gathered from the house. "What do you think?" he asked.

"This is good," she replied. "It should all fit in your…" Abby stopped and shifted her attention to the front door. Then she grabbed Owen's hand and yanked him after her into the bedroom. She locked the door, ran to the window, and prepared to open it. Owen could not help but glance at the pile of blankets on the bed. A dead body lay under there. Abby ignored it.

A crashing sound shattered the quiet. "Police!" several voices yelled.

Abby yanked the window up, placed her right hand on Owen's cheek. "I will find you, Owen," she promised. "You have to believe me. I will find you." Then the bedroom door burst open, and Abby was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Interrogation**

Charles Alvirez stooped over Abby's latest victim, pondering the bite pattern on the dead man's neck.

"If only she'd restrict herself to scum like this," Doug said, "we could put her on the godda- payroll."

_One less pedophi-,_ Alvirez agreed as he stood back up. He led his partner into the victim's kitchen, where they considered the assortment of valuables that the perpetrators seemed to have collected. "They were getting ready to leave," Alvirez decided.

"They sure weren't in a hurry, though," Doug replied. "Their train gets to Denver at 7:10 last night. Assume the creep picks them up in front of the station and brings them here. Based on the estimated time of death, Abby kills him soon after they arrive. But then get this: after committing murder, it seems the two kids _stay overnight at the murder scene_. Then Owen makes a ten minute phone call _from the murder scene_. And after making his call, what does he do? He stays_ at the murder scene_."

Alvirez picked up a clear plastic bag containing Abby's latest note to Owen. Doug glanced at the paper and shook his head. "They're idiots," he concluded.

"They're twelve," Alvirez replied.

And that was the rub of the matter. They weren't acting like they were part of a larger gang. They were acting like runaways. If adults besides Abby's father _were_ involved, they were sure keeping the kids on a long leash.

Not that Alvirez felt sorry for the dead man in the other room. It was simply that if he had treated Abby and Owen as runaways from the start, he would have had police ready to examine every train and bus that had departed Los Alamos. Granted, they had caught up to Owen. But Abby had gotten away. And Abby was the prize.

For a moment Alvirez worried that he might lose the case. Abby's father had been the lead suspect in the Oklahoma reservation killings, but he was dead. If Owen could not be labeled a kidnapping victim, and if there was no gang helping Abby – i.e., no interstate criminal enterprise – the FBI could decide Abby was not a federal concern.

Alvirez wouldn't let that happen. He considered the arguments he would use with the U.S. attorney: Children had traveled across state lines to avoid apprehension for the murder of a police officer. They had killed again after arriving in another state. Crimes had also been committed _against_ children. And Alvirez could always fudge things a bit and say that Detective O'Conner had been assisting the FBI in its pursuit of the reservation suspect. That would make O'Conner's murder a federal matter, too.

No, Alvirez would keep the case. He would keep the case, and he would hunt Abby down, and he would lock her away for the rest of her natural life.

"I don't think we can get a murder conviction out of this one," Doug interjected. "Man with a history of sexual offenses takes a 12-year-old girl into his bedroom. She can always claim self-defense. No jury's going to feel sorry for the bastard."

Alvirez nodded agreement, but he didn't care. What difference did it make whether they got Abby for ten murders or five? What mattered was that they got her.

"The ticket master on the train says Owen was travelling alone," Alvirez said. "But he had a large trunk in his possession. Patrol officers say they saw Abby and Owen carrying the trunk through the train station. So where's the trunk?"

"With Abby?" Doug suggested.

_With Abby,_ Alvirez mused. The Denver police had captured Owen easily enough, but Abby had not been present at the scene. Where had she gone, and when?

"We plaster the Denver TV stations with Abby's sketch," Alvirez announced. "Let's use the one with her in the hooded sweatshirt and miniskirt, feet bare. 12-year-old girl without shoes, walking the winter streets alone at night. Someone's gonna spot her."

Alvirez decided he'd seen enough. It was time to go set up shop in the Denver federal building. They had an important task to prepare for: the breaking of Owen Wheeler.

* * *

><p>"Jesus Christ, what a f-ing marshmallow." Alvirez' partner made this observation as the two of them got their first look at Owen Wheeler through the interrogation room's one-way window. Everything about Owen's physical demeanor screamed bully magnet. There was his small size, of course: the jail overalls looked like drapes on his slight frame. More important was his shyness, his androgynous face, the way he seemed to sink into his chair and disappear. No way a jury would believe this kid was a mass-murderer.<p>

Alvirez and Jenkins entered the interrogation room less than fourteen hours after Owen's arrest. Alvirez would have preferred to isolate Owen for a longer period of time, but it was more important to try and squeeze a confession out of the kid before his mother showed up and got him a lawyer. Besides, given Owen's age, the experience of being arrested combined with the night in jail was probably enough to completely disorient the child. He would be easy prey.

Owen sat in a rickety plastic chair, his back to the door. A more comfortable chair was positioned opposite Owen, and to this seat Alvirez immediately proceeded. Doug took a third seat that sat behind a table on Owen's left. Doug placed a thick file on the table, making sure the boy could see it. The outside of the file said "Owen Wheeler" in large block letters.

"Hello, Owen," Alvirez began, extending his hand and holding it there until Owen shook it. "I'm Agent Alvirez. I have some questions I'd like to ask you, if that's alright." He grabbed the file from the table, opened it, and asked, "Would you please state your full name?"

The boy glanced at Doug, then returned his attention to Alvirez. "Owen Chase Wheeler," he mumbled.

"Good," Alvirez replied. "And your birthday?"

"June 12," Owen said.

"What year?"

"1970."

"That makes you twelve, right?"

"Yeah," Owen answered. He gave Alvirez' partner another quick look. Doug kept staring at the boy, saying nothing.

"And you're in 7th Grade, yes?"

"Yeah."

"What school do you go to?"

"Los Alamos."

"What's your favorite class?"

Owen shrugged.

"How about your favorite movie?"

The boy paused for a moment. "Star Wars, I guess," he finally muttered.

"I _love_ Star Wars," Alvirez informed Owen. "I love when Han Solo chases the storm troopers in the Death Star. It's just him and Chewbacca, but once he starts yelling, all those storm troopers just turn around and run away. You have a favorite part, Owen?"

Owen sat there silent. Alvirez said nothing, waiting for the kid to respond. "I don't know," he finally said.

"Well, let me ask this," the agent continued. "You know there's no air in space. That means there's no sound. Does it annoy you that in Star Wars you can hear the spaceships fly and shoot their lasers and blow up?"

Owen just shrugged.

"What about the argument between Han and Luke about which weapon is better, a blaster or a lightsaber. Which do you think is better?"

The boy sulked. Once again Alvirez remained silent until Owen spoke up: "I guess it depends on whether or not you're a Jedi."

"What about the kiss between Han and Leia? Did you like it when they kissed?"

Owen didn't say anything. But he didn't shrug, either.

"How about Luke leaving Yoda to go rescue Han and Leia. Do you think he should have gone, even though he knew it was a trap?"

"I think Yoda should have gone with him," Owen suggested.

"You know, that's a really good idea," Alvirez declared, leaning forward and giving Owen a firm pat on the shoulder. "The two of them together could have whipped Darth Vader for sure. I'm wondering how Luke's going to get a new lightsaber for the next movie. I wonder where Jedi get their lightsabers anyway. I saw a plastic lightsaber at Toys 'R Us, but it was crap."

"I had one of those," Owen commented. "It broke."

"If only they could make a real lightsaber. It would be so cool."

"Yeah."

"I'd like to ask you a few simple memory questions, if that's OK, Owen. Can you tell me a book you are studying in English class?"

"Romeo and Juliet," Owen said after a moderate delay.

"And dinner a couple of nights ago. What did you have for dinner?"

At this Owen hung his head. Alvirez waited. "McDonald's," the boy eventually murmured.

"Good, good," the agent affirmed. "And a present you got for your last birthday. I know it was a while ago. Just try to remember anything."

"Boba Fett," Owen replied.

"Excellent," Alvirez concluded. He had Owen Wheeler's body language figured out. When remembering facts, Owen looked to the left. When thinking up an answer from scratch, Owen's eyes moved to the right.

"I'd like you to keep remembering things for me," Alvirez said. "But this time, I'd like you to remember things about Abby's father. We're really very interested in him. We think he might be guilty of attacking some people back in Los Alamos. He might even have killed some people. Do you think you can try and remember Abby's father? It would really help us out."

"Uh, sure," Owen said, his face demonstrating obvious puzzlement.

"That's great, Owen. Think back, please, to the first time you saw Abby's father. Do you remember where you were?"

"I was in my room."

"Excellent. It's good that you can remember that. And when you saw her dad, where was he?"

"In the courtyard."

"So you were seeing him through your bedroom window?"

"Yeah."

"It was nighttime, right?"

"Yeah."

"Do you remember what he was doing?"

"They were moving in."

"How do you know they were moving in?"

"He was carrying Abby's trunk from the truck. Then he unlocked the door and let her in."

"Can you describe her dad for me?"

"Old," Owen said. "He wears glasses."

"Good. That's very helpful. Can you remember anything else about him?"

Owen considered for a moment. "He looked at me funny."

"That's important, Owen. Can you remember where you were when he looked at you funny?"

"In the courtyard. On the jungle gym."

"And where was he?"

"He was standing in the door at the bottom of the stairs."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"No."

"Did you ever hear him say anything?"

Owen looked down at his hands.

"It's OK, Owen. You can tell me." Alvirez placed his hand on Owen's shoulder.

"He yelled at her," Owen finally admitted. "I heard him through the wall."

"What did he yell?"

"He called her…he called her a f-ing bitch. He said it really loud."

"Did you hear him say anything else?"

"No."

Alvirez could tell this was a lie, the first direct lie Owen had spoken. "What did Abby say about him?" Alvirez asked. Owen started squirming in his seat. "Did she say what happened to her dad?"

"No."

"Did you ask?"

"No."

Alvirez didn't like this. He wanted Owen saying "yes," not "no."

"So her dad was an old guy, right?"

"Yeah," Owen replied.

"And he looked at you funny?"

"Yeah."

"And he yelled at Abby."

"Yeah."

The agent nodded and pursed his lips. "Now I'd like to talk about Abby for a few minutes, if that's alright. I hear she's really pretty. You're sure lucky to have such a pretty girlfriend. I wish I'd had a girlfriend when I was your age. She is your girlfriend, right?"

"Yeah."

"Is she a good kisser?"

Owen smiled and looked down. Alvirez could tell he was blushing. _Good grief_, the agent thought. _This kid is too easy._

"I'm going to ask you to remember again," Alvirez continued. "Think back to a time you and Abby were sitting on the jungle gym. Can you remember something you talked about?"

Owen considered this for a moment. "She liked my Rubik's Cube," he said.

"Do you remember what she said?"

"She asked how to do it."

"Did you tell her?"

"I didn't tell her how to solve it. I don't know how. But she figured it out."

"She solved a Rubik's Cube."

"Yeah," Owen said, smiling once again.

"Owen – a girlfriend who's pretty _and_ smart. Not too many of those out there. You must really like her."

"Yeah."

"You're really glad she moved in, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"And she's a good kisser."

Owen smiled. "Yeah."

"Now I need you to do something for me, Owen," Alvirez said, glancing at his partner. Doug pulled out a plastic bag containing the note found in Owen's bedroom. He placed it on the table directly next to Owen's left shoulder. "We found this note written on a Now and Later candy wrapper. It doesn't look like your handwriting. Did Abby write this note?"

The boy looked openly confused at encountering this small piece of paper. Alvirez imagined the wheels turning in the Wheeler kid's mind: Who had gone into his bedroom? How had the note made it all the way from New Mexico to Denver? Owen touched the plastic bag, glanced up at Alvirez, returned his attention to the note. "Did Abby write this note?" Alvirez pressed.

Owen began shifting and rubbing his arms. He looked left and right. _No way out, kid,_ the agent thought. Alvirez scooted his chair closer to the boy, invading his personal space. "The note says 'Abby' and 'Owen.' Your names are written inside a heart. That looks like a love note to me, Owen. Something your girlfriend wrote to you. You like Abby, don't you? You say she's a good kisser. Aren't you glad she wrote you this note?"

"Yeah," Owen said at last.

"Good," Alvirez declared. "Very good. I want you to remember again, now, Owen. Remember where you were when Abby gave you this note. Can you do that for me? Where were you when she gave it to you?" Alvirez pressed closer yet, and waited.

"I found it in my bedroom."

"Abby was in your bedroom?"

"She…" Owen averted his gaze again and blushed. "She slept over."

"You had a sleepover," Alvirez commented, marveling at the cluelessness of Mrs. Wheeler. The girl next door had slept over in her son's bedroom – and the mom didn't even know there _was_ a next door girl! "It really _is_ nice to have a girlfriend, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Owen said.

Alvirez nodded and stood up, withdrawing from Owen's space. "That's real good, Owen. You're doing really well. Let's take a break for a few minutes, OK? Why don't you go to the bathroom. And I'll get you a soda. You like Coke?"

"Yeah, sure."

An officer led Owen from the room. "Marshmallow," Doug said.

By the time Owen returned, Alvirez had an unopened soda sitting on the table beside him. He did not offer it to the boy. Instead he had Owen sit back down. Then he opened the file in his hand and began producing large color photographs of dead people, placing them on the table next to Owen.

"Scott Wilson," Alvirez commenced, "killed by Abby's father on February 22. Jack Browning, killed by Abby on February 23. Joshua Hendrickson, killed by Abby's father on March 3. Virginia Summers, attacked by Abby on March 5, died the next day. Detective Sean O'Conner, killed by you and Abby on March 6. Mark Williams, Donald Brick, Kenny Dollard, and Jack Dollard, killed by you and Abby on March 7. Dillon Kershaw, killed by you and Abby on March 8. That's just two days ago, Owen. You and your girlfriend have been busy."

This sudden confrontation had the desired effect. Owen Wheeler stared at the photographs in complete shock, his jaw hanging open. The pictures revealed the face and neck of each victim, one photo showing a knife wound, four showing bite marks, the rest displaying a variety of other life-ending traumas.

Alvirez studied Owen carefully to see how he responded to each photograph. The kid had no reaction at all to the murders by Abby's father. The pictures of the four dead boys seemed to draw his eyes. Most interestingly, there were two photos Owen refused to even glance at: Virginia Summers and Detective O'Conner. Alvirez understood the latter, but the unwillingness to look at Virginia Summers puzzled him. In his reconstruction Owen didn't play a part in that attack.

Doug produced a tape recorder and hit play. Alvirez hovered over Owen, watching his every gesture as they listened to yesterday's phone conversation with his parents. Owen's eyes got big as he heard himself admit, "I shut the door." Then Alvirez began pulling out additional evidence.

"The message from Abby to you, showing you were in Abby's apartment the morning Detective O'Conner was killed." Alvirez held the zip-loc bag containing the note before Owen, giving him a chance to read it. "Detective O'Conner's blood on the bathroom door, Owen," Alvirez added, revealing another photo and slamming it on the table. "Your bloody footprints on the hallway floor," he added, smacking an additional picture down before the boy. "The doorknob," he concluded, shoving the image in Owen's face, "with your fingerprint in Detective O'Conner's blood. _Your_ fingerprint, Owen. It's on the doorknob. It's in _this_ man's blood," he pronounced, grabbing O'Conner's picture and holding it next to the photo of the doorknob.

Alvirez set the pictures on the table, then placed his hands on both of Owen's shoulders. "You're in a lot of trouble, Owen. But things could go a lot easier for you if you come clean and tell me the truth. How about it, Owen? You know what happened to these people. You'll feel better once you tell me. Isn't that right?" he added to his partner.

"That's right," Doug intoned. "If he tells you what happened, he'll feel a lot better."

"Tell me what happened, Owen," Alvirez pressed, "and everything will be OK."

Alvirez squeezed Owen, his face mere inches from the suspect's slumped head. He waited for the kid to say something, anything – but the boy stayed mute.

The agent frowned, but he didn't falter. He took a step back and began lecturing. "Here's what I think happened," he said, and he picked up the photos of the four dead boys. "These losers were bullies. They picked on you, they hurt you, no one helped. Your teachers didn't protect you, your parents ignored you. You were on your own. Finally you realized you had to fight back. Kenny and Donald and Mark threatened you on Copes Pond, and you did it, Owen. You fought back.

"It's what I would have done, Owen. Real men fight back against bullies, and you and I, Owen, we're real men. I'm glad you fought back. Kenny deserved it. He deserved getting smacked upside the head. And no one was sorry for him, Owen. They were glad you hit him. They thought you were a real man. So do I.

"But Kenny held a grudge. He came looking for you at the pool, and his friends and his brother came with him. They came looking to harm you. But you fought back, Owen, and no one can blame you for that. It was self-defense, four on one. You didn't do anything wrong. They attacked you, and you fought back. And Abby came and helped you."

Owen grabbed his knees and glanced around like a trapped animal. Alvirez knew he had him.

"The alternative," Alvirez continued, "is that you went to that pool looking to hurt Kenny and his friends. You hit Kenny in the head and it felt good. You wanted more. You wanted complete revenge. You knew Kenny and his friends would be at the pool. You brought a weapon. Maybe you brought some friends of your own. You planned to kill them. Then you carried out your plan. You're a murderer."

Owen was shaking his head no before Alvirez even finished speaking. "Those are your choices, Owen," Alvirez maintained. "Did you go there intending to kill those bullies? Are you a murderer?"

"They were trying to drown me!" Owen protested.

Alvirez backed away from Owen and sat down, rewarding the boy with some personal space. "That's good, Owen," he said. "I really appreciate you saying that. That tells me you're not a murderer. Those boys came to that pool to hurt you. Whatever happened to them, they got what they deserved. It was all self-defense. Tell me how they tried to drown you."

"Kenny's brother held me underwater. He had me by the hair."

"How long did he hold you underwater?"

"He said he'd poke my eye out if I didn't last three minutes."

"Did you last three minutes?"

Owen opened his mouth, stopped. His face took on the expression Alvirez had seen a thousand times, the one that said the obvious: _I've said too much._

Alvirez pressed his advantage. "You and Abby take a train to Denver. You make it onto the street, this man gives you a ride to his house." Alvirez picked up the picture of Dillon Kershaw and kept it before Owen. "He takes you inside. Maybe he touches you." The agent saw this was wrong, and changed themes. "Maybe he touches Abby." The boy's eyes burned. _Bingo_, Alvirez thought.

"He touches Abby," Alvirez continued. "He takes her into the bedroom. Abby has to fight back, don't you see that, Owen? She has to defend herself from this pervert who's trying to take advantage of her. It's self-defense all over again. She didn't do anything wrong. I'm right, aren't I , Owen? It was self-defense, wasn't it?"

Owen nodded.

"You were sleeping over in Abby's apartment." Alvirez picked up the message from Abby. "You wake up and find this note. Abby's in the bathroom. Suddenly a policeman breaks into the apartment. You're afraid for Abby. She's your girlfriend. You like her, and she likes you. She cares about you. She cares about you way more than anyone else has ever cared about you. And now she's in danger from this strange man who shouldn't even be there.

"The policeman goes down the hall toward the bathroom. You know Abby's in the bathroom, and you're afraid. What is going to happen to Abby? She's your girlfriend. You care about her, more than you've ever cared about anyone. You don't want her to get hurt. You need to protect her. It's your job to protect her. You're her boyfriend. It's what any boyfriend would do. It's what any boyfriend _should_ do: he should protect his girl.

"The policeman enters the bathroom. He has a gun. You're so afraid for Abby. You know she's in there. Then Abby bites the policeman. You didn't want her to. But the policeman surprised her, and she did what she's been trained to do: she fights back.

"You're shocked at what's happening. There's blood everywhere. This isn't what you wanted. Why did this man come in here in the first place? He should have minded his own business. It's his own fault this has happened. But it's hard to watch, so you grab the doorknob and close the door."

Alvirez motioned to his partner. Doug played back the key line from Owen's conversation with his parents: "I closed the door, Dad. I closed the door."

"It's not Abby's fault," Alvirez continued. "She's been raised to live like this, to behave like this." The agent saw this line of reasoning lose Owen. This puzzled him, but he shifted anyway. "It's not her fault. Did she mean to kill that policeman? _He's_ the one who broke into her apartment. If he had minded his own business, none of this would have happened. A strange man comes into her apartment and surprises her…"

Alvirez stopped again. He kept offering the self-defense angle, but Owen was refusing to take it. What did that leave him with? "She's a sweet girl, Owen. This stuff she does, it's not her fault." Alvirez paused and stared at Owen. The boy was with him this far. He agreed that Abby's actions weren't her fault. "Give me a reason to believe that, Owen. Explain to me why it's not her fault. I know you believe that. I want to believe it, too. Here's your chance to defend her. Defend your girlfriend. Prove to me it's not her fault. I promise I'll believe you."

The agent observed the distant look in the suspect's eyes, could tell the boy was marching through the bathroom scene. He wanted Owen to say it out loud!

"It's OK to tell me what happened, Owen. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't Abby's fault. There's a reason she's not to blame. I can tell you're upset about what happened. You'll feel a lot better if you just tell me. Convince me Abby's not to blame."

Owen fixed his gaze on the FBI agent, an expression of pure horror covering his face. _What did you see?_ Alvirez begged silently. _You saw your girlfriend bite a man's throat out? You saw her drink his blood?_ Alvirez considered the strained, empty look in the boy's eyes, the incomprehensibility, the incredulity. And suddenly he realized: Owen _had_ seen Abby bite a man's throat out and drink his blood. But the boy had also seen something else. Something even worse.

* * *

><p>"Still think he's a marshmallow?" Alvirez asked on the other side of the one-way glass. Owen sat alone in the interrogation room, sipping his Coke.<p>

"I've never seen a suspect come so close to breaking, and then not break," Doug commented. "It doesn't make sense."

_It's worse than that,_ Alvirez thought. _He _did_ break._ Alvirez had crushed the kid thoroughly and completely and ruthlessly. _And then Owen had refused to tell them what he'd seen._

Alvirez had not succeeded in breaking every suspect he had ever questioned. But the ones who did break always confessed. That's what it meant to be broken. They _wanted_ to confess. They'd say anything, just to make the interrogation stop.

What did it mean if a suspect broke but still refused to speak? Owen broke. But he won't speak? No, it's not that he won't speak. It's that he _can't_. Owen had seen something _beyond_ speech, an event or fact or datum that could not be articulated. Language could not contain it. Language would not permit it to be.

Alvirez decided in that moment that he was going to start lying to his partner. He had never deceived Doug before, had never held back his thought processes. But this case had just passed into some unknown place. Such cases were dangerous. Such cases didn't make careers; they destroyed them. The politic thing was to start keeping his own counsel, to hide within himself the queries rising in his mind.

Thus he refrained from explaining to Doug that without ever being asked, Owen Wheeler had answered the most important question of all: Abby was alone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Juvie**

_Now Abby will find me._

Owen consoled himself with this thought as he endured the receiving process at Bernalillo County Juvenile Detention Center in Albuquerque. He had spent his last ten days isolated in the Denver jail. There had been endless meetings with his mother and lawyer. There had been hearings before a judge. Apparently Colorado didn't want him.

New Mexico wanted him. Owen was being charged as an accessory in the deaths of Kenny and his gang, and as an accomplice in the death of the policeman. They were words Owen hadn't known two weeks ago: accessory, accomplice. His lawyer had drilled the terms into his head repeatedly. Accomplice was more serious than accessory. Owen had gotten that much down, at least.

But hopefully there wouldn't be a trial. Abby would come and she would rescue Owen and he would never make another phone call home as long as he lived.

During his first night in the Denver jail, Owen had felt Abby's presence. It had only lasted a few minutes, but she had definitely been nearby – on the street, perhaps, or on the roof. The next night he had felt her again. Since then, nothing. He wondered where she had gone. He wished she had kept visiting him each night.

He had dreamed of Abby breaking in, of course. She would smash through the concrete and duck the storm of bullets and Owen would be free. But the Denver jail was a fortress. There were so many bars. There were so many men with guns. Abby might have super-strength, but attacking the Denver jail was suicide.

The Bernalillo Juvenile Detention Center seemed easier. It had a fence, not a wall. The guards Owen had seen so far did not carry guns. Perhaps tonight would be the night.

After a strip search and a shower, correctional officers led Owen to C Wing, the section his lawyer had described as housing long-term violent offenders. His mother had wept at the news. Owen took one step into C wing and understood why.

A common area contained about twenty-five boys, some sitting at tables and chairs, others milling about in racially segregated groups. Cells with metal doors surrounded this open space, with another tier of cells above. Perhaps ten additional prisoners leaned on the railing that ran along the second floor walkway. Every boy in the place seemed at least five years older to Owen. Many of them wore muscle shirts, and their muscles were enormous. All of them struck Owen as incredibly fierce.

"New meat!" one of the inmates yelled. Boys ran into the path that Owen would have to take, blocking his way to his cell. Some of them repeated the call of "new meat," but others just looked at him, mystified. Owen guessed why. He appeared so small and harmless, no one could understand how he had ended up in juvie at all, much less C Wing.

A boy who had to be at least six feet tall stepped from the crowd. He studied Owen for about five seconds, observing him as though he were a drop of water under a microscope. Then he touched a single fingertip to Owen's forehead and held it there.

The mass of boys grew quiet at this. A number of them glanced over at an office manned by guards. The guards did nothing. The tall boy lowered his finger and smiled. Owen knew he was doomed.

The crowd parted. Owen rushed to his cell, a tiny room with cinderblock walls, two metal cots, and not much else. The upper bed already had sheets on it, so Owen sat on the lower bunk, placing his linens in a meager pile beside him. He couldn't believe what was happening to him.

After ten minutes a boy wandered in who was perhaps only a couple of years older than Owen. "I'm Tim," he said. "Your roommate. Guess I'm not the youngest now." He leaned against the wall and looked Owen over. "Jesus, kid, what did you _do_?"

Owen stared at the floor, saying nothing.

Tim shook his head. "You're screwed," he informed Owen.

That night Owen learned why. Five older teens hauled him from bed and dragged him to cell 17. Owen was not surprised to find the tall boy from earlier waiting for him, a monster the others addressed as Bobby. Bobby did not pause for effect, but went up to Owen immediately and punched him in the stomach.

Owen collapsed on the floor. The six teens began kicking him, and Owen made the serious mistake of crying out for Abby.

"Abby," one of his tormentors began chanting, and soon all of them were calling out her name as they pummeled him into a bloody mess.

_Abby rescued me before,_ Owen thought. _She'll save me again._ Then the real torture began, and Owen was no longer capable of thinking anything.

Abby didn't come.

* * *

><p>Owen endured the next three weeks in a daze. He went to school in the detention center. He ate his meals with the white kids. At night, when Bobby and his friends felt like it, he got "seventeened." One evening after dinner, Owen asked Tim why they never came for him. "Got bored with me, I guess," was his only reply.<p>

He got more and more angry over the nightmare he was experiencing. A little of this anger was directed at the corrections officers, but not much. Owen had come to expect nothing from adults, so it didn't surprise him that the guards had thrown him to the wolves. Much of his rage was directed at Bobby and his accomplices. Owen couldn't comprehend how, after finally escaping one gang's attention, he had ended up under the control of another gang ten times worse.

But many days, he felt most angry at Abby. Abby had promised to find him. But Abby _hadn't_ found him. Owen no longer knew if she would ever find him. He was in jail because of Abby, and he wondered if Abby even cared.

Owen felt guilty at all this Abby-oriented anger. Abby cared about him. Abby had rescued him. Surely she would come one day. Surely there was a reason she hadn't come so far.

One thing Owen could say about the hell of juvie, it helped him better understand the vision Abby had shown him. She had been horribly brutalized, and now Owen was going through the same thing. He couldn't imagine how he would ever recover. He wondered if the same was true of Abby, that she had been damaged and never healed. Maybe she couldn't be healed.

After a particularly horrible night, as he lay in his bed sobbing softly and silently begging Abby to come save him, Owen realized things couldn't go on like this. Perhaps Abby would come for him. Perhaps Abby wouldn't. Either way, Owen had to do something before there wasn't anything left of him to save.

He started to get embarrassed over his constant wish to have his girlfriend come and rescue him. The boys in juvie were tough. They fought back when they were attacked, even if they had no hope of winning. They didn't cry at night, despite getting beaten or worse. And they didn't spend time hoping their girlfriends would get them out.

Owen tried fighting back a few times, but this proved counter-productive. Bobby was twice his weight, he had street experience, and he had lots of big friends. Plus when Owen resisted, things got even nastier; the two nights he took a swing at Bobby, he had to crawl back to his cell. If he was going to find a solution, it would have to be something other than punching.

But his weak attempts at self-defense got Owen thinking about his two critical encounters with the bullies at Los Alamos Middle School: the morning on the ice when he had hit Kenny in the head with the metal pole, and the night in the locker room when he had pulled a knife on Kenny's brother – and then failed to use it.

Owen eventually decided that the reason he hadn't used the knife was _because_ he had hit Kenny in the head. He had harmed another person, and he had hated it. Despite all that Kenny had done to him, the instant the pole had ripped his ear apart Owen had felt horrified, not happy. He had bragged about it to Abby afterward, of course. But there was no getting around that initial reaction. _I'm a wimp,_ he decided painfully. He wondered if he was going to be a wimp forever.

One afternoon Owen arrived for class preoccupied with the news his lawyer had just delivered: New Mexico was dropping the charges related to the killings at the swimming pool. Instead the state was going to focus on prosecuting Owen for the death of Detective Sean O'Conner. A trial date had been set. But New Mexico was offering a lighter sentence in exchange for testimony against Abby. It was all very confusing.

As Owen sat at his desk, trying to make sense of the differences between federal and state crimes, accessories and accomplices, and murdering a police officer versus tearing apart four punks in a pool, he became convinced of his absolute ignorance. He had entered another world, a forensic world, full of terms and concepts and procedures that utterly mystified him. And it was while he sat there, meditating on his cluelessness, that the teacher handed back three tests he had taken.

Owen stared at the exams: Math, English, and History. He had gotten an A on all three. Owen hadn't listened to a thing the teacher had said over the last month. He certainly hadn't studied. He couldn't even _remember_ taking the tests. He had gotten A's. But he was stupid! The latest meeting with his lawyer had driven that point home. He was stupid and didn't understand what was happening to him and wished – oh, how he wished! – to go back to that train ride and do everything differently.

He glanced to his right, saw that the boy sitting there had gotten F's. He peeked to his left, then over the shoulder of the student in front of him. It was the same. Owen might be stupid, but his fellow inmates were, well, a whole other level of stupid. These boys were three, four years older than Owen. How had they failed while Owen had gotten A's?

_I don't belong here_, Owen realized. There was something different about him. The other juvies were larger and tougher and stronger, yes. But Owen was smarter. He didn't have trouble understanding his lawyer because he was stupid. He had trouble understanding his lawyer because he was…uneducated. There were words and ideas and ways of thinking that Owen had never learned, that no one had ever even tried to teach him.

_I'm not stupid. I'm uneducated._ But just because he was uneducated didn't mean he had to stay that way. Owen looked up from his tests, focused on the teacher, and began paying attention.

* * *

><p>"You have to weigh the advantages and disadvantages of being tried as an adult," Owen explained to the eight boys crammed into his room. "If they try you as an adult, you get a jury trial. You get the right to appeal if you lose. But the penalties are a lot stricter. So you have to ask yourself, how will you look to a jury of adults? Will they look at you as a poor, misunderstood kid who's had a hard life? Or will they see a dangerous juvie they need to lock up to keep away from their daughters?"<p>

Owen's audience took a moment to ponder this thought. They were all white kids, of course: George, Cliff, Mark, and Rick, three boys who went by the nicknames Village, Bank, and Stack, and Owen's roommate, Tim.

"That judge f-ing hates me," Rick protested.

"Will a jury hate you any less?" Owen asked. "They've got the evidence to convict you. Otherwise they wouldn't risk going to trial. They'd plea bargain instead. No, your lawyer's right. Fight the motion to try you as an adult. Lose in criminal court and you could end up in prison. And from what I hear, prison makes this place look like Disneyland."

_And prison's where I'm headed when I turn eighteen,_ Owen thought, _even if I do get convicted in juvenile court._ Apparently _who_ you killed mattered a great deal to the state of New Mexico, and Owen had broken one of the most important rules of the street: never kill a cop.

"You're lucky you're twelve," Rick declared.

"Yeah, right," Owen groaned. The other boys shook their heads in sympathy. There was exactly one prisoner in C Wing who got seventeened more than anyone else, and they all knew who it was.

The class grew silent, until Cliff finally whispered the question: "What did you _do_?"

Owen had been asked this question before, of course, but always he had held off. Giving free legal advice could only get him so far, however. It was time to begin the second stage of his plan.

"My girlfriend's a vampire," Owen declared, and from that opening statement, he had them.

"Three bullies picked on me constantly," Owen continued, "Kenny was the leader. I was in the swimming pool one night, and they came to get me. Kenny's older brother came with them. I ran to my locker and grabbed my knife. But then I chickened out."

Owen paused at this, afraid that the boys would laugh at his cowardice. Instead they merely nodded. It occurred to Owen that perhaps he wasn't the only person to have ever frozen in a fight.

"Never pull a knife unless you know how to use it," Village explained. "Otherwise they just take it and you get cut with your own blade."

"Well that's just what happened," Owen said. "They dragged me to the pool and threw me in. Kenny's brother grabbed my hair and told me I had to hold my breath for three minutes. Or he'd poke out my eye. He held my knife in my face as he said it. Then he pushed me under.

"He was drowning me. I knew I couldn't last. Then I heard screaming, and his head suddenly plopped into the water in front of me."

"Just his head?" several of them asked.

"Just his head," Owen affirmed.

"F-ing A," George pronounced.

"I came out of the water and there was Abby. She had torn them to pieces."

"Did she drink their blood?" Tim asked.

"You know, I don't know," Owen replied. "She had just eaten someone the day before, so maybe she wasn't hungry."

"F-ing A," George said.

"Wait a minute," Bank interjected. "The four students killed in Los Alamos. You're saying that was _you_?"

"Abby's the one who actually killed them," Owen clarified, but he could tell Bank thought he was full of it. That was OK, though. No one had to believe him. Not yet, anyway.

"That story was all over the TV," Bank continued. "They say you guys killed a cop. Is that true? Did you kill a cop?"

Owen said nothing. He simply watched as the light bulbs went off in his listeners' minds. That's why a twelve-year-old had been stuck in C Wing. That's why the guards made no effort to protect him. Owen was a cop-killer.

He saw the new respect develop in his visitors' eyes, mixed with doubt. They begged for details, but Owen declined. He needed to keep them coming back for more.

* * *

><p>One advantage of juvie was that it gave a person lots of time to think. As long as the lights stayed on, Owen concentrated on his law books. Most of the material was over his head, but he gleaned what he could. Every day he understood a little more. But in the dark, on those nights Bobby chose to pick on someone else, Owen would lay in his bed and try to sort things out.<p>

He and Abby had made so many mistakes. The traced call had been the biggest. But it wasn't the only one. Abby needed to hide. It was foolish to kill a police officer, then kill four minors. These acts focused attention on Abby. They made her visible. What Owen and Abby should have done was run away from Los Alamos _before_ the detective came knocking. Owen berated himself for not realizing this sooner.

Owen lamented his performance during the interrogation in Denver. He could have asked for a lawyer. He _should_ have asked for a lawyer. He should have kept his mouth shut. He hated how Alvirez had picked him apart. Owen kept waiting for the FBI agent to return and question him further, but the jerk had vanished. Owen didn't understand why.

Alvirez, however, had communicated something very useful. He had mentioned two people killed by Abby's father. Owen thought a lot about that. He guessed that Abby's dad had been trying to get blood for her to drink. Owen imagined the filmstrip, tried to comprehend the idea that Abby's dad had once been Abby's age. Eventually a basic question formed in Owen's mind: _Does Abby want me to get blood for her?_

Owen didn't know if he wanted to kill people for Abby. He didn't know if he _could_ kill. Abby had never said she wanted Owen to get blood for her. What _did_ Abby want? Why did she like Owen? _Did_ she really like him? What did she expect? Why did she want him to be with her?

Owen knew what _he_ wanted: he wanted to make Abby happy. He thought about Abby and decided that more than anything else, Abby was sad. Owen didn't want her to be sad. He wanted her to be happy. Owen knew he was able to do this. He was able to make her happy. And the nightmare of juvie was all worth it, if only Owen could make her happy some more.

He wondered how old Abby was. He wondered _where_ Abby was. He worried that something had happened to her, that a potential meal had somehow defeated her. She should have come by now.

One thing was clear. If Abby ever _did_ come, Owen needed a plan for what they would do next. He wasn't going to be a burden, not this time. He was going to help Abby. He just had to figure out how.

* * *

><p>On his thirteenth birthday, Owen gathered a dozen boys into a corner of the common room and told them an Abby story.<p>

"We took the train from Los Alamos," Owen began. "Abby stayed in the trunk. She can't go in the sun; it burns her. So she stayed in the trunk the whole way there.

"When we got to Denver, it was nighttime. Abby got out of the trunk and we went to a bench on the street. It was really cold. But Abby doesn't get cold. She hardly ever wears shoes, not even in the snow. A guy drove by and picked us up. He looked at Abby funny."

"Loser!" Mark shouted.

"Pervert," Stack declared.

"Get him, Abby," Rick encouraged.

"We got some food at McDonald's. Then we went to his house. Abby made him say, 'You can come in.' She can't go in someone's home unless they invite her in. Abby went into his bedroom. Then he went in."

"Yeah!" several of the boys yelled. "Dinner time."

"The screaming only lasted a few seconds," Owen stated matter-of-factly. "Abby drank him dry."

"What about you?" Stack asked. "What did you do?"

Owen smiled. "I ate my French-fries."

"F-ing A," George said.

"But I was stupid," Owen continued. "The next day I called home. That's how the police found us. It's a good thing they came at night, or Abby would've been toast. It was such a stupid mistake. I still can't believe I made it."

A lot of the boys nodded at this. They had made stupid mistakes, too.

Owen paused for a few seconds, then shared his dilemma: "I need a way to kill people without getting caught."

The group got very quiet. Several boys glanced over at the guard station.

"Make sure there are no witnesses," Tim suggested.

"Don't leave evidence," Rich added.

"They always find evidence," Bank objected.

"I heard of a guy," Stack added, "who burned the crime scene. That took care of the evidence."

"But that only works indoors," Owen said. "Abby can't go in unless she's invited."

"Don't let them find the murder weapon," Stack said.

"That's not relevant here," Village interjected. "Abby's just using her teeth. Your problem is the body. You can't let them find the body."

Owen nodded. He had studied _habeas corpus_.

"But that's everyone's problem," Village explained. "Sooner or later, somebody always finds the body. Figure out how to hide the body, and you can get away with it."

Owen nodded again, but he was disappointed. He had already figured this much for himself. He needed more, and the inmates in Bernalillo couldn't help him. They understood violence. They understood hard times. But they didn't know how to get away with murder.

* * *

><p>A week later Owen lay in his bed, fuming at the unfairness of the world. A painful truth had finally clicked in his mind: he had been placed in C Wing deliberately, with the goal that the abuse would compel him to testify against Abby. The authorities didn't just <em>know<em> what was happening to Owen. They were counting on it.

Owen thought about the vision Abby had shown him. If he understood it rightly, it explained how Abby had become a vampire: another vampire had bitten her. And if that was how Abby had become a vampire, couldn't she do the same thing to Owen? Owen had no idea if he really wanted to be a vampire. Abby had never mentioned the possibility. But Owen loved the idea of being strong enough to fight off Bobby and his gang.

If he were a vampire, he wouldn't be useless. He wouldn't slow Abby down. He could fly off into the night with his girlfriend, and the police would never catch him. He could _eat_ the police. He would never be afraid.

Except Abby was afraid. She was afraid all the time: of sunlight, of discovery, of…what? There was so much sadness. Fear didn't seem to fit in, but there it was. Owen wanted to make Abby's sadness go away. Could he make her fear disappear, too?

It would not be easy. The boys in juvie made fun of the police. They thought they were stupid. Owen knew better. _Criminals_ were the stupid ones. Criminals who so arrogantly believed they could go on forever and never get caught. No, police were smart. Very smart. Alvirez had convinced Owen of that much. Police knew lots of things that Owen didn't know. Even worse, Owen didn't _know_ what he didn't know. He realized there were things he needed to learn, but he didn't know what they were.

_If we're going to survive out there,_ Owen concluded afresh,_ I need an education._

* * *

><p>"The policeman kicked in the door," Owen said, fifteen boys hanging on every word. "I hid behind a wall and he passed me by. He headed down the hallway toward the bathroom.<p>

"I followed him as close as I could. He had his gun out. He opened the bathroom door. Something was in the tub. He pulled away one blanket, then another. There she was: Abby, asleep, curled up like a little child.

"The room was dark. The policeman yanked on the window cardboard. Sunlight started coming in. I knew if he kept going Abby would be killed. I yelled for him to stop.

"The man spun around and pointed his gun at me. I had scared him. Then Abby jumped on him from behind. She wrestled him to the floor. His neck made a really loud crunching sound when she bit it. Blood spurted all over the place. I got as close as I dared, shut the door, and let Abby have her breakfast."

"F-ing A," George concluded.

That night George, Rick, Village, and Stack snuck to Owen's room. They urged Stack to speak.

"We've been thinking," Stack began. "You asked how you could get away with killing someone. We're wondering if that's how you should be talking."

"Abby's gotta eat," Owen said simply.

"No, it's not that," Stack continued. "We're just thinking there might be another way."

"What do you mean?"

Stack glanced at the other boys, who encouraged him to continue.

"My sister has hemophilia. Know what that is?"

"No," Owen answered.

"It's a bleeding disease. She bleeds all the time, and they can't stop it. So they have to give her extra blood. It's called a transfusion."

"Go on," Owen said, suddenly interested.

"I'd visit her in the hospital, and she'd always have a bag of blood hanging on her IV. So I ask my mom, where do they get the blood? She says people donate it. That means they take some blood from one person to give to another. Don't you see? Abby doesn't have to kill people. You can get blood out of them by sticking a needle in their arm."

"Why would anyone let me?" Owen asked.

Village jumped in at this point. "There are people willing to do anything for money. Prostitutes. Drug users. Their blood's probably got all kinds of crap and diseases, but if Abby doesn't mind, you could pay them and they'd give you their blood."

"Where do I get the money?"

"Rob people," Village suggested. Owen didn't like the sound of this. "It beats killing them, doesn't it?" Village added.

Owen considered the idea they were presenting. If Abby didn't actually eat people, if she just ate their blood, there'd be no trail of dead bodies to follow. They could escape police detection. They could disappear.

"I don't know how to stick people with needles," Owen objected.

"So learn," Village said.

The notion fascinated Owen. And _he_ hadn't thought of it; his fellow juvies had. They might get F's on their tests. They might not know how to hide a body. But they were useful, after all.

Owen lowered his voice to a whisper. "Teach me how to steal," he said.

* * *

><p>"Tomorrow's five months for me," Owen informed his roommate. The lights had gone out ten minutes ago. Owen worked at sharpening a paper clip on the wall of his cell.<p>

He had already stenciled Abby's name on the upper portion of his left arm. Now he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark, dipped the paper clip into the ink he had borrowed from Village, and began jabbing his skin.

The process was painful, but Owen had felt worse. He let the blood run down his arm and drip onto the floor.

Tim drifted off to sleep. Owen kept inking. The low light level made the task challenging, but Owen was in no hurry. By midnight he was about a third of the way done.

Owen would have liked some art to go with the letters – fangs, perhaps, and a pool of blood. But he knew he didn't have the skill for complex designs. He could always get more work added later.

He finished the tattoo about an hour before roll call. Likely it would get infected, but Owen didn't care. Abby had been marked. He would love her forever.

That morning while lined up for the shower, a number of boys surrounded Owen and admired his handiwork. They paid him compliments. "Nice one," several of them said.

Suddenly Bobby came up and smacked Owen's arm. "Pissant tattoo," he declared, "for some lame girl with a pissant boyfriend. I can't wait to do her. Then she'll know what it's like to have a real man."

There was only one thing Owen could do in response to this, the thing he had realized months ago he would eventually _have_ to do. He jumped on Bobby and bit him in the throat.

The attack surprised Bobby so completely that he punched at Owen instead of pushing him away. Owen wrapped his arms and legs tightly around his target and adjusted the position of his teeth.

Owen bit hard. He bit harder than he dared. Bobby screamed. A gush of blood filled Owen's mouth. It tasted awful and made him gag, but he had no intention of letting go. He did the only thing he could do: he swallowed.

Bobby slammed Owen into the concrete wall. Owen bit harder. Bobby collapsed onto his back, flailing. He tried to get Owen off, but Owen was attached too tightly.

Owen's mouth filled with blood. He swallowed. His mouth filled with blood again. He swallowed again. Everyone was screaming.

Two correctional officers grabbed Owen. This was a mistake, for as the guards yanked a great piece of flesh tore away from Bobby's neck. Blood sprayed Owen's face and chest. The guards fell backwards. Then they wrestled Owen, smashing his face into the tile.

Owen focused on the shouting. The juvies were crying his name. "Owen, Owen!" they chanted. Owen drank the cheers, spit a chunk of Bobby, and laughed: for the first time in his life, he had friends.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: The Angel**

"You're sure he said that?" Alvirez asked.

Timothy Shell, Owen Wheeler's roommate at the Bernalillo Detention Center, nodded for emphasis. "He said he called out to the policeman, got him to turn around. Then Abby attacked him from behind. That's what he said," the boy maintained.

Alvirez exchanged looks with his partner, rubbed his eyes. He was getting tired of the trip between Denver and Albuquerque.

"Excellent," Alvirez affirmed. "That's very good, Tim. You're doing a great job. Keep up the good work." A pair of New Mexico state troopers appeared and escorted Tim from the office.

"Five times we've talked to this kid," Doug said. "Always the same bullsh- story: Abby the vampire girl. It's all useless."

"_Some_ of it's useless," Alvirez corrected. "It's no different than any other testimony, really. We just have to separate fact from fiction."

"Even if we can determine which elements are true, what difference does it make? We're not learning anything we didn't already know."

"Well," Alvirez insisted, slightly annoyed, "part of it is the principle of the thing: I always get my testimony, one way or another. But we _have_ learned some things. The knife recovered at the pool was Owen's, not one of the victim's. Owen feels like he egged Abby on before she attacked Virginia Summers. And he definitely helped Abby kill O'Conner."

"Even if all that's true," Doug said, "does it help us?"

"Maybe not," Alvirez granted. "But I think it's significant that in every account Owen claims Abby is the one who did the actual killing."

"He's making it up," Doug countered. "He's trying to impress everyone."

"Let's think about that," Alvirez proposed, beginning to pace. "If he were trying to show off, make himself look bad, wouldn't he exaggerate his own role in the murders? In fact he doesn't portray a very flattering portrait of himself. 'I chickened out.' According to Tim, those were Owen's exact words when describing the incident in the locker room. I don't think he'd have said that if he weren't recounting what actually happened."

Alvirez could tell Doug wasn't buying it. He didn't press the issue, instead letting the man disappear on a lunch run. His partner did have a point, though. This case presented a number of seemingly unsolvable questions, none of which were being answered by Owen's jailhouse stories.

The biggest problem was the additional forensic evidence uncovered by the FBI coroner. According to him, their John Doe had been bitten on the neck and partially drained of blood. But when? And where? O'Conner had been questioning the suspect. The detective had then stepped out to the nurse's station, during which time John Doe had leapt to his death.

So this meant John Doe must have been bitten in his hospital room between the time O'Conner had left the room and the time he had returned to find the suspect dead on the ground outside his hospital window. But how could Abby have snuck into the room when she was apparently down in the lobby talking to the receptionist at the exact same time?

This fact alone had convinced Doug that others must be involved. Alvirez had allowed his partner to persist in this belief. The agent still had some lingering doubts himself, of course. But he felt pretty confident at this point that his initial notion of "Abby's Gang" had been a serious mistake.

The medical examiner had found more. There were bite marks on the four boys killed at the pool. Human bite marks. There were also bruises in the shape of small human fingers. Like a girl's fingers. The evidence just kept pointing to one impossible conclusion: Abby had ripped those kids apart with her bare teeth and hands.

Alvirez had not shared this conclusion with his partner, much less with his superior. He never would. But in the privacy of his mind he was free to think things one was not permitted to share out loud. Not if one wanted to remain employed, anyway.

The inescapable fact was that most of the evidence could be accounted for if Abby possessed super-strength. And an exceptional climbing ability. But really that was just a sub-category under the broader heading of super-strength. So the real question became, _How is Abby so strong?_

Alvirez tried to develop a rational explanation. Abby could really be a much older person pretending to be twelve. There were teenage girls who passed for women, after all. Perhaps some women could do the opposite. Abby could possess a full-blown psychotic personality. There was a saying that a madman possessed the strength of ten. And there was always the possibility the girl was completely hyped up on drugs. Put it all together, and maybe, just maybe, it could account for the swimming pool massacre.

The agent was, however, also willing to entertain an _irrational_ explanation. Alvirez opened up a desk drawer and pulled out the Bible he had purchased that morning at a local bookstore. He turned to the New Testament and began searching for the story of the Gerasene demoniac.

Alvirez' parents had sent him to Bible college. There he had tried to study philosophy. What a joke that had been, discussing Kant and Hegel with a bunch of close-minded fundamentalists. Although Alvirez _had_ discovered Jonathan Edwards in the process, the smartest person ever produced by America and by far her greatest philosopher. So Bible college hadn't been a total waste. Alvirez graduated with agnostic leanings, not yet ready to completely jettison the religion of his parents.

But whatever faith survived his school's anti-intellectualism died utterly in the jungles of Vietnam. Alvirez had been _so_ good at calling in artillery strikes. He had witnessed the fruits of his labors. He no longer believed there could be a God.

Yet Alvirez had not committed himself to philosophic naturalism. He pretended to be a naturalist, of course. A man had to if he wanted to get ahead in this world. But privately, secretly, he was still willing to admit the possibility of the supernatural.

The agent found the passage he was looking for, Mark 5:2-5. "When Jesus got out of the boat, a man with an evil spirit came from the tombs to meet him. This man lived in the tombs, and no one could bind him any more, not even with a chain. For he had often been chained hand and foot, but he tore the chains apart and broke the irons on his feet. No one was strong enough to subdue him. Night and day among the tombs and in the hills he would cry out and cut himself with stones."

The demon-possessed man had torn his chains and broken his irons. People were unable to subdue him. That certainly qualified as super-strength. Living in the tombs and cutting himself with stones didn't seem to match Abby so well, at least as far as Alvirez knew. But inhuman strength was clearly present in the story.

Abby could be an eighteen-year-old psychotic wacked out of her mind on drugs. She also could be a frightened, helpless girl possessed by an evil spirit. Alvirez was willing to consider either option. He needed to figure out which one was correct.

* * *

><p>Alvirez sat alone in his office foyer as two policemen arrived with Owen Wheeler. The boy seemed confused at first, but when he saw the FBI agent his uncertainty vanished.<p>

"I want my lawyer," the child demanded.

Alvirez stared at him, amused. He had the handcuffs removed from Owen's wrists. "Thank you," Alvirez said to the officers. They retired into the hallway.

"I have a right to counsel," Owen insisted.

"I'm not questioning you as a suspect," Alvirez clarified. "So actually, no you don't."

This caught the boy off guard. He recovered quickly. "You interrogated me without a parent or a lawyer. Nothing I said to you is admissible."

Alvirez smiled and shook his head. "I never had any intention of pursuing a federal indictment against you, Owen. I don't care about you at all. It's Abby I want."

"Your interrogation can't be used against me," Owen persisted.

"New Mexico doesn't even _know_ I questioned you. You think they need a confession? You and Abby left a boatload of evidence in your apartments. The judge is going to send you up. Juvenile detention until you're eighteen. Prison until you're twenty-five. That's a lot of years, Owen. The best years of your life. Then you go and make things even worse. Not too bright, killing someone in jail."

"He dissed my ink and my girl," Owen explained. "Besides, he had it coming."

"So I hear." The agent studied the child for a minute, observed that some of the boyishness had left his face, replaced by scars and an increased awareness of the real world.

"I know the prosecutor has offered you a lighter sentence," Alvirez said, "in exchange for testimony about Abby. I'm here to sweeten the deal. The FBI wants Abby. You've no idea how badly they want her. We've worked out an arrangement with New Mexico. Tell us what you know about Abby, and your sentence will be reduced to time served. That means you get out of juvie _today_, Owen. You'll be a free man."

"Go to hell," Owen said.

Alvirez pondered this response. "You're too confident," he eventually observed out loud. "You're thirteen. You're looking at twelve years of incarceration. You should be nervous. But you're _not_ nervous."

Owen returned the agent's gaze, waiting. This intrigued Alvirez even more.

"I'd say you're simply clueless, that you don't understand what's coming your way. But you've been five months in jail. You have some inkling of what prison is going to be like. You should be more eager to avoid it. The deal I'm offering, it's really rare. You should be jumping at it. At the very least you should be considering it. You dismissed it out of hand."

Alvirez sat there for several minutes, trying to guess what Owen was thinking. He assumed the silence would get Owen to say something. The boy stayed mute.

"Follow me," Alvirez finally ordered. He stood up and led Owen into his office. A map of Colorado took up an entire wall. Thirteen red stickers had been plotted on the map.

"Abby's kills over the last 160 days," Alvirez explained. He touched a sticker that had been placed in Denver. "Her first victim, when you were still with her. The only time she has struck in the actual city."

He motioned to the region west of Denver. "Since then, a dozen additional attacks. She kills an average of once every twelve days. Her method is distinctive. The victims are always bitten, always drained of blood. It makes her easy to track."

Alvirez watched Owen carefully to see how he would respond to this information. The agent wasn't disappointed: Owen smiled.

"This news makes you happy. Why?" He observed Owen carefully as the boy tried to conceal his excitement. He had just made the kid's day.

Alvirez studied the map. He studied Owen. Then he shook his head. "She's looking for you," he declared. He couldn't believe he hadn't realized it sooner. "That's why you're not afraid to go to prison. You think she's going to bust you out." Alvirez sighed and shook his head again. "I should have had you in here months ago."

The agent sat on his desk for a minute and ruminated. "Abby knows you were arrested in Denver. She stays in the area, tries to find you. That's why she refuses to move to a new hunting ground, despite the increased danger."

This got Owen's attention. Alvirez pulled out a tabloid from three days ago, showed it to Owen. The headline said, "Vampire Girl Strikes Again." It carried a sketch of Abby on the front page.

Alvirez elaborated: "The more respectable papers don't actually use the phrase 'Vampire Girl,' but that's what everyone's calling her. The way she kills is just so unique, Owen. We always know it's her. Western Colorado is up in arms. The state's giving concealed carry permits to everybody. People are refusing to go out alone at night. And last week a two-man hunter-killer team nearly got her. She managed to kill both of them, but not before they wounded her."

Alvirez could tell from Owen's reaction that the boy thought he was lying. "I'm telling you the truth, Owen. Her blood was recovered at the scene. Doctors examined it under the microscope, and they were _very_ interested in what they found. They say they've never seen anything like it. They're guessing Abby has some sort of unique genetic disorder. Or maybe she's been infected with a rare pathogen that they haven't been able to isolate."

The agent returned his attention to the map. "Many people think a gang of adults is helping Abby, lurking in the shadows and pulling her strings. You and I know better, Owen. We know it's just Abby. She's strong, and she covers a lot of territory. She's not smart, though. Look at the pattern of her attacks and tell me where she is."

Alvirez let Owen study the map with this question in mind. The answer was obvious, although the boy wouldn't admit it. Alvirez pointed to a spot in the middle of Abby's kill zone.

"A company of soldiers from the 10th Mountain Division is deploying to this area tomorrow. They are trained in high-altitude combat. They carry mountain-climbing gear and cold weather equipment. They will hunt Abby in squads of ten. They will carry automatic assault rifles. They will track her down, Owen, and they will shoot her. And she will stay in place, waiting to be shot, because she thinks you're still in Denver."

Owen didn't seem terribly fazed by this. The kid's confidence in Abby was remarkable.

"You and I have one thing in common," Alvirez said. "All we care about is Abby. Show how much you care about her. Help me bring her in. I promise that when the court considers her upbringing, the unique nature of her crimes, and her medical condition, she will be judged unfit to stand trial. That means she will go to an asylum, not a prison.

"That may not sound like much, but think about it. Once she's under proper medical care, she can be weaned off her dependence on human blood. Or if her disorder actually necessitates such a diet, blood can be provided to her safely, without anyone being harmed in the process. Abby can receive psychological counseling to help her overcome the training she's received. And maybe, just maybe, the doctors can cure her.

"I'm not promising that, Owen. The researchers could examine Abby and study her and decide there's nothing they can do for her. But isn't it worth trying? Imagine a day when Abby is cured and the two of you can live a normal life together. That's got to be worth something to you."

Alvirez could tell Owen wasn't buying into this. He switched tactics.

"What if she does manage to break you out?" Alvirez asked. "What kind of life are the two of you going to live? You'll always be on the run. You'll always have me or someone like me chasing you. Sooner or later you'll be recaptured. Maybe Abby gets away again. So you're stuck in prison while she goes free. But let's face it, Owen. _She's_ the one who's killing people. _She's_ the one who needs to be incarcerated, not you. If one of you has to be locked away, doesn't it make more sense that it be her? Help me bring her in. She gets the medical attention that she needs. You go free. It's better that way."

The agent paused, tried to restrain his frustration. Owen wasn't listening.

"Does Abby _want_ to eat people? Do _you_ want her to eat people? You get out there on the street with her, and that's what's going to happen. More dead bodies. It has to stop, Owen. For both your sakes. I'm suggesting an alternative that will put an end to the killing. I think you both want that. I realize I'm not offering a fairy tale ending. But I _am_ offering you both a better life: you'll be free, Abby will no longer be eating people. Isn't that a better outcome than the course you seem set on?

"I know what it's like to kill, Owen. I know how it feels. It destroys your soul. Maybe you don't feel that way because you killed your enemy. But Abby's killing people at random. They aren't her enemies. They haven't done anything bad to her. They don't deserve to die.

"Try to imagine what that must be doing to Abby's soul. Her heart, if you will. It's got to be ruining her heart, eating away at her, destroying her little by little. You have to help me, Owen. For her sake. Help me bring her in. She'll be happier when she's no longer eating people."

This line of reasoning seemed to click with Owen, but Alvirez realized it didn't matter. Not right now. The boy clearly had some plan of his own. He wasn't willing to consider other options.

* * *

><p>"Arrogant little punk," Alvirez complained to his partner. "So smug. So self-assured. He wouldn't listen to a thing I said."<p>

"Sounds like a teenager," Doug said.

"You had to _see_ the confidence in his eyes, Doug. He's certain Abby's going to get him out. I'm offering him a realistic solution. But he's got some fantasy clouding his mind."

"Sounds like a teenager," Doug repeated.

Alvirez approached the map of Colorado and considered the red dots. "It makes sense," he thought out loud. "Owen's a juvenile, so his court records are sealed. The papers haven't printed his name since he became a suspect. They haven't reported his extradition to New Mexico. She thinks he's still in Denver. Or at least she has no clear reason to think he's elsewhere."

"I have to think they're smarter than that."

_They_, Alvirez thought. Doug was so committed to the belief that Abby had a gang. But Alvirez had gotten it wrong, too. He hadn't really understood the implications of Abby being a twelve-year-old.

"We use it," Alvirez concluded. "We publicize Owen's location and set a trap."

"What about the troops?" Doug asked.

Alvirez waved his hand dismissively. "PR stunt. A single company? They could search that range for years and not find her. We need to do something to flush her out. We need to end this thing now."

"People get hurt down here and it's your ass."

"Then we better not screw it up."

* * *

><p>A week later Alvirez patrolled the extended perimeter he had created around the Bernalillo Detention Center. The sun would set in an hour. Alvirez examined the new cameras installed outside the fence. He greeted the officers stationed beyond the cameras. He practiced running to the fence from the tree line. Twenty seconds. That's how long it would take to collapse the perimeter and shut Abby in.<p>

Alvirez headed inside to the guard station, received an update from Doug, and dismissed his partner for the evening. Keeping Doug on the day shift meant that one of them had the position manned at all times. This was Alvirez' stated reason for having his partner there during daylight hours. Alvirez, however, knew Abby would attack at night. He didn't want Doug to be there when it happened.

The guard station contained two sets of monitors: old black-and-white screens displaying feeds from the building-mounted cameras, and modern screens showing video from the cameras outside the fence. Together the monitors revealed the exterior of the building from every angle. It would be impossible to miss Abby climbing the wire.

For the trap to work, of course, the facility could not appear to have been fortified. That's why the police were stationed in the trees. Abby had to feel it was safe enough to attempt a break-in.

Alvirez toured the interior of the detention center, checking the barricades that had been placed at each exit. This is how they would trap Abby in the courtyard. Even if she were strong enough to rip one of the exterior doors completely off its hinges, the barricade inside the doorway would stop her. She would stand there, wondering what to do, while the men outside closed in.

The agent was concerned that at the critical moment, the New Mexico troopers might hesitate to exercise deadly force against a female minor. Alvirez had taken them to the gun range and required them to shoot girl-shaped targets. But he knew that wouldn't help much, not when they actually came face-to-face with her. He hoped Abby would attack the officers rather than simply trying to escape. That would compel them to discharge their firearms.

Alvirez made a round of the detention center's cells, nodding to the guards who were making sure the prisoners stayed in lock-down. He walked down a hallway to the isolation unit, looked through the small window in the door, observed Owen Wheeler asleep in his bed. It was the fourth night they had waited for Abby to make her move.

Midnight found Alvirez, two policemen, and two correctional officers sitting in the guardroom watching the monitors. Screaming suddenly echoed through the common area, followed a few seconds later by a loud bang. "Collapse the perimeter!" Alvirez radioed, though he knew it would do no good. His target had entered the building.

Alvirez drew his weapon and ran toward Owen's cell. Dismembered guards lined the hallway. The agent wanted to hurry to the isolation cell and check it out, but there was nothing to see down there. He needed to figure out where Owen had gone.

Abby had breached security. She hadn't come over the fence. So how had she made it inside? Alvirez ran to the ladder that led to the roof, saw that the hatch at the top had been ripped open. He surged up the steps and burst outside. And there his life was transformed.

An angel stood ten feet in front of Alvirez, her face and hands covered with blood. She locked eyes with Alvirez, dropped a sweatshirt, and wrapped her arms around Owen. Then she started running toward the agent.

Alvirez considered shooting Owen in the back. The bullet would pass through and hit the girl. But Alvirez couldn't pull the trigger. It wasn't because killing two unarmed thirteen-year-olds might damage his career. It was because the angel accelerating past him was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

Now it was Owen's turn to stare at Alvirez. He gave the agent a contented look as he rested his chin on Abby's shoulder. Alvirez recognized excitement and determination in the boy's expression. Owen was starting his adventure. And Alvirez was getting left behind.

The next instant the children were off the edge and airborne. As the agent watched them disappear, his last shred of doubt left him. There was no gang. There had never been a gang. There was just Abby.

Alvirez gazed into the sky and lamented. He found himself wishing there _were_ a gang. Because if there were, he would join it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Going Steady**

Abby flew north. Owen, arms wrapped tightly around her neck, could see little except crisp stars shining in the desert air. He drank in the cool breeze, laughed and cried in turn, exulted in his dreams coming true. It was great to be free.

After a ten-minute flight, Abby landed next to a Buick parked several hundred feet off a highway. Owen felt his bare feet crunch into sand, but Abby did not let him go. Instead she pressed him to her with crushing force, repeating over and over again, "I missed you so much, Owen. I missed you so much."

Owen didn't know what to be most thrilled about: Abby busting him out of juvie, Abby flying him over central New Mexico, or Abby going topless. Owen rubbed her back as she continued to embrace him. Her smooth skin gave no indication that wings had ever been present. "I missed you, too," Owen said.

Abby released him, opened the Buick's driver-side door, and pulled out a large bottle of water. She rinsed off her face and hands, grabbed a fresh sweatshirt, and put it on. "Get in," she urged. As soon as Owen closed the passenger door, Abby started the car, gunned the engine, merged onto the highway, and continued heading north.

Owen lay down on the seat, with his feet on Abby's lap and his right arm beneath his head. "They'll be looking for us together," Owen explained. "This way if we pass a cop he'll only see you."

He hoped the dark would be enough to conceal Abby's identity. Her long, straight hair really stood out, especially since most girls didn't wear their hair that way. She ought to put it up, or better yet, cut it off. Owen wondered if state troopers would stop and search vehicles headed away from Albuquerque. He had no doubt Abby could handle any police they encountered, but he did not want to leave a trail of bodies. He wanted to disappear.

"Where did you get the car?" Owen asked.

"I stole it from a service garage," Abby explained. "I went through the vehicles they'd finished, picked the one I wanted. It won't be missed until the morning."

"It's cool you can drive," Owen said.

Abby smiled. "I'll teach you. Then we can take turns."

Owen liked the idea of getting driving lessons from Abby. He liked the idea of doing just about anything. He was free of juvie! He would never go back. Owen wondered what Alvirez was doing at that moment, how he was starting to search. The agent had seen them fly away. What would that mean for his pursuit?

Abby had left a bloodbath back at Bernalillo. Owen imagined every police officer in New Mexico pouring onto the roads in search of the fugitives. What was the better course of action? Should they make a fast run for the border? Or should they find some place to hunker down? Owen wished he had asked his friends what to do. Except he had never shared his hope that Abby would rescue him. Alvirez had figured it out though.

Owen felt the car exit the highway, but he did not risk a peek out the window. Instead he lay there, staring at Abby. She was so pretty! How amazing it was to see her and be close to her. Over five months they'd been apart. Owen had forgotten how great it was to look at her, to simply _be_ with her. He couldn't let them get separated again.

Trees started crowding the road. "You can sit up," Abby said as she brought the car to a halt. Owen rose in his spot, watched Abby exit the Buick and use a large pair of pliers to open a link in a chain blocking their way. Then she drove the car forward, got back out, and repaired the chain behind them. "Santa Fe National Forest," Abby explained.

The road reduced to a single lane, then became gravel. They spent at least fifteen minutes twisting and turning up the side of a ridge. On the downward slope Abby pulled off onto an overgrown fire road. She took this until it gave out, then drove straight through a great pile of brush. They emerged in a small clearing containing two small tents. Abby got out and began piling sticks and plants behind the car.

Owen stepped from the vehicle. "That tent's yours," Abby said, pointing. "I got you some clothes. I hope they're the right size."

"Thanks," Owen said, wincing as walked over the bracken. He unzipped the tent and went inside. It was pitch black, but he discovered a flashlight and turned it on. The interior contained a pile of shirts and jeans. There were four pairs of sneakers in different sizes. Abby had even obtained socks and underwear.

Owen emerged a few minutes later, dressed in layers. It had only just turned September, but the air was quite cold at this altitude. His used his flashlight to navigate to the tarp spread in front of the tents. Owen examined the supplies Abby was organizing on the plastic: packaged food, four gallons of water, a camp stove, cookware, a lantern, bottled fuel, and several additional tarps folded neatly in a pile. Owen sat down opposite her, turned off his flashlight, and enjoyed the smell of pine trees. It was great to be free.

"Can you see in the dark?" Owen asked.

Abby nodded, her skin like porcelain in the moonlight. "Sometimes even better in the dark," she said. She heated water on the stove, opened a freeze-dried meal, and poured hot water over the food. She handed the packet to Owen and waited for him to start eating. Owen stared at her.

"Oh," she said suddenly. "Silverware." She went to the car and opened the trunk, then came back with a sleeping bag and a large Swiss Army knife. She handed Owen the knife and ran the sleeping bag over to his tent. Owen turned his flashlight back on, found a fork implement, and began eating…breakfast? He wondered what time it was.

As Owen wolfed down his beef and noodles, shivering without a coat and wishing they could build a fire, he turned a question over in his mind. "When did you last eat?" he finally asked Abby, trying to keep his voice flat. She looked away. "I need to know," Owen insisted.

"Two nights ago," she uttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

"That means you can go about another ten days, right?"

This surprised Abby. "How do you know?" she inquired.

Owen explained the map Alvirez had shown him.

"When I fly a lot I get hungry faster," Abby said. "Normally I can go two weeks."

"Did you know you were being tracked?" Owen asked. She shook her head. "He said you were wounded. Is that true?"

"Parabellum hollow point," she explained, pointing to her left thigh. "It bled a lot. By the next night it was healed."

"It was dangerous," Owen said, "staying so long in one place."

"I was trying to find you. I searched the city over and over again. I kept reading the papers. Four days ago they said you'd been moved. I got here last night, but I needed to get this ready first," she said, gesturing to their camp.

"It's great," Owen declared. "Best place I've ever been." He finished his meal. His shivering grew worse.

"I knew I'd forget things," Abby lamented. "I should have gotten you a coat."

"I'm fine," he insisted, but he kept thinking about how great a fire would be.

"You should get in your sleeping bag," she recommended.

Owen agreed to this. He closed his knife and rose from the tarp. Abby ran over to her tent and grabbed a radio, then met Owen as he was about to say goodnight.

"Can I come in?" she asked softly.

Owen smiled. "You can come in," he replied.

They squeezed through the entrance. Owen pushed the spare clothes into a corner, opened up his sleeping bag, and lay down on his right side. Abby snuggled up next to him, her back against his chest. Then she tuned the radio to a Santa Fe station.

They listened to music for a while. The last song Owen heard before drifting off was one he had learned in juvie:

And bein' apart ain't easy on this love affair

Two strangers learn to fall in love again

I get the joy of rediscovering you

Oh girl, you stand by me, I'm forever yours, faithfully

He fell asleep with Abby in his arms.

* * *

><p>Owen awoke alone, the sun high in the sky. He went outside and studied Abby's tent from a distance. He could sense that she was in there. Owen had forgotten how wonderful that was, simply feeling her nearby. She had staked a tarp over her tent, which provided additional shade. Combined with the cover from the trees and whatever blankets or sleeping bags she had in her possession, Owen assumed she was safe from the sun.<p>

He walked down the hillside and relieved himself, wondering idly whether or not vampires had to go to the bathroom. He returned to their camp and found himself looking for a clock. As he rummaged quietly for food he thought of other things he wished he had. He began making a mental list.

The hours passed. Owen tried to decide whether or not he was guarding Abby. She couldn't go in the sun. But what practical good was he actually doing, patrolling outside her tent? If a hiker or park ranger blundered into their clearing, it wasn't like Owen could do anything about it. Abby had survived for five months on her own. She didn't need Owen in order to survive.

But it seemed she _did_ need him if she was going to survive in a manner that didn't attract police attention. It puzzled Owen, how Abby had lived so many years, yet had never figured out how to conceal her kills. Didn't she understand how important the dead bodies were? Couldn't she do more to keep them from being discovered?

Owen hoped Abby needed him for more than just practical reasons. She said she had missed him. He wondered if she had been as lonely without him as he had been without her. Granted, he had eventually made friends in juvie. But it wasn't the same.

He wished for some books. There was nothing to do here. He spent a few minutes searching the Buick, didn't find anything interesting. He took some paper and a pencil that he found in the glove compartment and wrote down things they needed. He imagined police helicopters scanning the forest. Owen didn't like it that they were still in New Mexico. He began working on a plan.

Abby emerged from her tent as soon as the first stars appeared. "Hey," Owen said. "Hey," she replied. Owen almost offered her something to eat, realized that was stupid. Abby excused herself and disappeared into the forest. Maybe vampires _did_ need to go to the bathroom. Owen became conscious of the fact that he hadn't showered or brushed his teeth. He pulled out his list and added more items.

"It's Monday," he informed Abby when she returned. "I want us to leave New Mexico Friday night. We're going to need a lot of money where we're going, but I don't want to rob houses clear across the country. I'd rather hit as many as possible Friday evening, right before we leave. Hopefully we can get a new car, as well."

Abby listened carefully, but said nothing. She seemed willing to let Owen take the lead.

"That'll give us several days to case neighborhoods in Santa Fe," Owen continued. "But tonight I want to practice. There's things we need. And I've never actually broken into a home. How far can you fly with me?"

"Yesterday was about my max," Abby answered. "At least without taking a rest. That won't get us to town."

Owen considered this. "Then we'll have to drive part way," he concluded. "We can't take this car on the main road, though. They know it's stolen." He ran to his tent for some extra t-shirts and the flashlight, while Abby cleared a path for the Buick. Then they loaded into the car and began driving out of the forest, Abby keeping the headlights off as she maneuvered through the trees.

She parked just out of sight of the chain blocking the entrance to this part of the park. They got out of the car and Abby took her shirt off. Owen wondered how long it would take him to get used to _that_. Abby took hold of him, ran down the road, and lifted off. Owen was amazed at how quickly her wings appeared. Being a vampire definitely had advantages.

A few minutes later Abby landed on a cliff overlooking Santa Fe. Owen had been to the town a few times, but he had no recollection of the layout. All he knew for certain was that he wanted to attempt a house on the far side of the city, away from the forest. He explained as much to Abby.

"We can't go straight over," Abby said. "It's too bright."

"Then we go around it," Owen informed her.

Abby picked him up again and headed north. Owen didn't like it that he couldn't see where they were going. Could Abby carry him facing out? If she did, he wouldn't be able to wrap his arms around her neck. But she had to be strong enough to hold him on her own, at least for a little while. He wished he could fly. The thought returned that he had first had in juvie: Couldn't Abby change him? Wouldn't everything be so much easier if she did?

"Try to find a large, unoccupied house," Owen suggested. "One with trees around it. It shouldn't be too close to other houses."

After a few minutes Abby landed in the back yard of a two-story dwelling shaded by several tall aspens. No lights were on inside the home, although a large flood illuminated the rear patio. Owen picked up a rock, smashed the floodlight, and waited for a reaction. Nothing happened.

His friends had taught him where to look for spare keys, but Owen didn't feel like wasting the time. Instead he had Abby fly him to an unlocked bedroom window, which he raised with his hands wrapped in t-shirts since he didn't have gloves. He got one leg through before Abby stopped him.

"Wait," Abby said as she clung to the house's exterior. "Dogs don't like me. If they have one it will come."

Owen paused with his legs straddling the windowsill, ready for a hasty departure. No dog appeared. "Keep watch," he reminded Abby. Then he entered the bedroom.

Owen made a quick walk-through, terrified of discovery. He imagined a sleeping resident arising and confronting him with a gun. Abby wouldn't be able to help him, not inside. His tension eased a bit as he proceeded through the house. It was unoccupied.

The first thing Owen tried to find was a pair of gloves. This took longer than he had planned, but the search at least familiarized him further with the dwelling's interior. Once his hands were covered properly, he grabbed two large suitcases from the basement and pulled out his shopping list.

He started on the lowest level and worked his way up, going systematically from room to room. His nervousness made him drop things, and spin in circles, and pause constantly to listen for Abby. He hoped she could shout loudly enough if the owners returned.

How much easier it would have been to simply go to K-Mart! Jewelry, cash, sweatshirt, coat, new clothes for Abby, soap, deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, mouthwash, hammer, screwdriver, buckets, laundry detergent, rope, knives, baseball hat, food, water, watch, silverware, dish soap, scissors, rags, sponges, towels, map, women's magazines, whistle, bicycle, oven cleaner, toilet paper, books, backpack, batteries. Owen knew he wouldn't be able to find it all. Certainly there was only so much Abby could carry. He tried to slow down and prioritize, but it was hard. He kept thinking about getting caught.

Owen at least made sure he got the five items requested by Abby: newspaper, scattergun, ammunition, hacksaw, file. In the den he found a large gun case. It included a number of firearms that Owen assumed were shotguns. He broke the glass, lifted out the three weapons that looked most promising, and walked them upstairs to the open window. "Abby," he called into the dark.

She appeared suddenly from the rooftop, startling Owen so badly that he nearly screamed. "Is this what you want?" he asked. He held each gun before her in turn. She settled on two of them, told him to take the third one back. Owen searched the den further and discovered four boxes of ammunition.

He dragged the luggage to the top of the stairs and topped it off with items from the bedrooms. He then passed the suitcases to Abby, who flew them to the woods behind the house. Owen leaned the two shotguns against the windowsill and ran through the home, opening every window. He went to the living room and pulled all the books from the shelves. He added some pieces of lumber from the basement. Finally he got a can of gasoline from the garage and poured it on the pile.

He didn't want to destroy this family's home. He hadn't left any fingerprints. But some of the things they had stolen were untypical: toiletries, soap, clothing. The theft would stand out as unusual, and Alvirez wasn't stupid. Burning down the house would attract a lot of attention in its own right. But at least fire would keep the agent guessing. Owen lit the pile and ran upstairs.

This time Abby carried Owen facing forward; it was his job to hold the shotguns. He couldn't see much in the dark, although the city lights in the distance looked impressive enough. Abby had to land twice, but after an hour she got Owen back to their car. She rested longer in the relative safety of the forest. Owen felt badly about working her so hard. Eventually she flew off to retrieve the suitcases.

Waiting alone in the woods, Owen started feeling small and useless, this despite having just added burglary and arson to his list of crimes. He was struck by the hard truth that Abby could not always protect him. During daylight she could do nothing, of course. But even at night she could not be with him every moment.

He wished he had stuffed some ammo in his pockets. Yet what would he do with a loaded gun if a park ranger _did_ show up? Would he really try to shoot him? Owen had no desire to kill people. Bobby had been a necessary exception.

It took hours for Abby to return with the suitcases. She shoved them into the trunk of the Buick and collapsed behind the steering wheel, exhausted. "You did a great job," Owen affirmed. Abby smiled, but said nothing. They made it back to camp just as the sky was beginning to lighten. Abby gave Owen's hand a squeeze and disappeared inside her tent.

* * *

><p>Owen stumbled into the morning. He wanted to rest longer, but the ground under his sleeping bag was rocky, and the changes in animal sounds kept causing him to stir. Tonight he would have to lay a tarp over his tent. That would at least keep the sunlight out.<p>

He found a container of instant coffee. He didn't really care for coffee, but his fatigue called for desperate measures. He heated up a pot of water, only to realize they didn't have cups. He poured the crystals straight into the pot and began sipping from the edge.

A half-hour later Owen had the two suitcases open. He dug out a watch and strapped it on: Tuesday, September 6, 8:37 AM. He found the toilet paper and made a trip to the woods. He unwrapped a Hershey bar and ate it slowly, one rectangle at a time.

Owen kept thinking of things he had not succeeded in stealing, either because he hadn't found them or because Abby hadn't been able to carry them. It wasn't long before new items started coming to mind. He pulled out his list and wrote stuff down, but he knew they'd have to make do with what they had.

Actually, _Owen_ would have to make do with what they had. Abby didn't seem to need much. She didn't even appear to drink water. She needed a good source of shade during the day. She had to eat every other week. That seemed to be it. Even the clothes on her back were, strictly speaking, non-essential.

He wished they could go shopping. Abby currently possessed over $1200 in cash, plus a decent stock of jewelry she eventually hoped to sell. Add in what they had just stolen, and a spree at the mall would be quite doable. But appearing in public was out of the question.

Owen picked up the newspaper and found several articles related to him and Abby. Apparently she had killed five guards. The escape had happened so fast that Owen hadn't really been sure how many she'd plowed through on the way to his cell. The article mentioned details about their families and funerals. Owen remembered how the correctional officers had turned a blind eye to what Bobby was doing. He felt somewhat content at the guards being added to the ever-expanding "f-with-Owen-Wheeler-and-you-die" list.

The state of New Mexico was engaged in a massive manhunt. Fortunately the image of Owen in the paper was his Bernalillo intake picture, which was almost six months old. His appearance had changed a fair bit since then. One article mentioned that Alvirez had been recalled to Washington. Owen wondered what that meant.

He opened up a map of Santa Fe and began studying the developments adjacent to the National Park. Those were the homes they would rob Friday night. Tomorrow they would start casing them. Owen eventually folded the map and switched to a box set of paperbacks, a four-volume series called _The Lord of the Rings._ He pulled _The Hobbit_ from the case and began reading.

By the time Abby got up, Bilbo was telling Smaug riddles and Owen was reading by lantern. He put the novel down, grabbed some towels and other supplies for the two of them, and asked Abby to join him in a search for water.

They headed down the hill, but it took a lot longer than he expected to find a creek. By the time they did, he knew he could never retrace his steps. He trusted Abby would be able to navigate the way back.

Owen knelt beside the water and plunged his hand into the current. It was incredibly cold. He was tempted to give up the whole idea of bathing, but having a girlfriend motivated him. He didn't want to smell. He grabbed his stuff and headed upstream so he could be alone.

The process took a long time. He had to undress, dip in the (freezing) water, jump out and wash, get back in. It was slow going in the dark, despite the lantern and the moon, and he was afraid of slipping on the rocks. He dried off with the towel he had brought and put on clean clothes. But then he had to do his laundry. He got the dirty clothes wet, poured some detergent on them, and tried to rub the soap into the cloth. It would have been a lot easier with a bucket. He rinsed the laundry, wrung it out as best he could, and wrapped it in his towel.

When he returned to Abby he found her sitting beside the creek. Her hair was wet, and she was wearing a fresh t-shirt, so Owen assumed she had bathed. There were no other clothes for her to change into, though. That was something they would have to take care of on Friday.

Owen was shivering as they started up the ridge, but the climb soon had him sweating. He wondered what the point of getting clean was if they just got dirty again anyway. They arrived back at camp and Owen glanced at his watch. Three hours had elapsed. Three hours to take a bath and do a handful of laundry. This "living in the wild" thing was ridiculous. He wished they could stay in a motel.

Abby popped the trunk of the car and grabbed one of the shotguns. She found the hacksaw and began cutting off the barrel. "This is a Remington pump-action," she explained. "Very reliable, even when you don't clean it. 12-gauge, so the recoil is going to take some getting used to." The barrel fell to the ground. Abby switched to the file and began smoothing the gun's new end.

"Sawing it off makes it easier to conceal," Abby continued. "It'll be easier to handle in tight spaces. It also makes it lighter. That's important if you're going to be hauling it all over the place. They say sawing off the barrel makes the pellets expand faster. I'm not sure that matters at close range, though."

She produced a box of shells and loaded five rounds. "Always treat a gun like it's loaded, whether you think it's loaded or not." She stood up, pumped the shotgun, lifted it to her shoulder, and fired into the trees. The loudness of the report shocked Owen. He covered his ears instinctively.

"The noise takes some getting used to," Abby admitted. "But recoil is the real issue." She beckoned him over and handed him the gun. "Stand like this, with one foot forward. Lean into the weapon. Press it against your shoulder. Tighter. Now try."

Owen squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. After some effort he managed to work the pump. He aimed and fired. The blast kicked the gun high into the air. Owen nearly lost his footing. He rubbed his shoulder where the stock had tried to dig a hole in his flesh. He stared at the weapon in disbelief.

"Pretty impressive, huh?" Abby noted, taking the shotgun. "And it'll cycle fast, too." She fired off the last three rounds in quick succession. Owen rubbed his ears. It was like standing next to a cannon.

She handed the weapon back to him. "Keep it pointed at the ground," she said. She went into the trees a little ways and began stacking small logs. On top of this pile she set bottles from their growing collection of trash. Then she led Owen to a spot about three yards in front of the targets.

"The stuff they show in the movies is nonsense," Abby emphasized. "This is the distance at which real gunfights take place. Go ahead and fill the magazine. Try to hit them."

It took Owen several minutes to load the shotgun and pump a shell into the chamber. When he finally aimed the weapon and discharged it, he was embarrassed by the result: he had missed.

"That's OK," Abby said. "Get closer. Yes, closer. Really close. If you ever have to shoot someone, that's probably how close you're actually going to be."

Owen made another attempt, and this time he hit his target. He cycled through his ammunition, knocking every bottle off its perch. His shoulder was killing him.

Abby checked the gun to make sure it was empty. "Pistols are smaller and lighter," Abby observed. "Their recoil can be easier to manage. But they're inaccurate. The man who shot me last week, he got off five rounds with his Beretta. I was maybe two yards away from him. He only hit me once. That's why you want the shotgun. The spread of the pellets increases the odds of a hit. And it has a lot more stopping power."

She sat down, moonlight filtering through the canopy to highlight her hair. "There was a gunfight," she reminisced. "Four men. Ten, fifteen feet apart. They emptied their pistols. No one got hit. They _were_ fall-down drunk," she admitted. "But all those bullets flying, you'd think _somebody_ would get hit. I saw another fight, two men, two pistols each, against an old sailor with a double-barrel. The sailor was the only one who walked away.

"Of course a rifle is a different story. A sharpshooter gets you in his sights, and you're just dead. The Pennsylvania rifle was really accurate. But it took forever to load. The Winchester repeater was the first gun I was really afraid of. I won't attack soldiers. Not anymore."

Owen joined Abby on the ground. "Can you remember…_before_ you changed?" he asked. "Before you were a vampire?"

Abby fell silent for several minutes, till Owen thought he had said something wrong. But then she spoke: "My sister Betsy would fasten my gown. She looked so dignified in her riding habit. It was burgundy, with mother-of-pearl buttons. I played dress-up with her hats."

"Afterwards," Abby said, her voice distant, "she was the only one who'd let me in. She'd tell me where the Indians were. I'd come home to her, and she'd clean me up, and she'd say how proud of me she was. She would let me hold her babies. She died in childbirth."

Owen heard Abby's despair, the vision-misery she had shared with him so many months ago. Her sorrow tore his heart. Yet he was with her now. Didn't he make her happy? He _knew_ he did. He made Abby happy. He made her _really_ happy. But that didn't seem to make her unhappiness go away.

Owen asked himself a strange question, one that had never before occurred to him: _Could a person be happy and sad at the same time?_

* * *

><p>The next night they drove to the chain a little before midnight. Abby picked him up, facing outward, and flew him to the nearest cluster of houses. They hovered over the development for several minutes, Owen matching the roads below with the map in his hand. Then Abby landed for a rest.<p>

They repeated this process four more times, giving Owen a total of five neighborhoods to hit on Friday. He felt rather uneasy about planning to rob people. But it _was_ better than killing them, which was what he was trying to prevent.

By the time they got back to the car, several hours remained until sunrise. Instead of getting behind the wheel, Abby handed the key to Owen and got in on the passenger side.

A thrill of excitement rushed through Owen. He settled into the driver's seat and shut the door. His dad had let him start their car sometimes, so Owen knew how to do that much. He put the key in the ignition and got the engine going. Then he turned to Abby.

"We can't risk the headlights," she began. "So you'll have to do your best by moonlight. The right pedal is gas, the left is the brake. Press the brake and use the gear shift to put the car in drive. Yes, like that."

Owen released the brake. The Buick began inching down the road. He touched the gas pedal and the vehicle shot forward. He stepped on the brake, bringing them to a jerking halt. He repeated this process several times, accelerating and stopping in erratic fashion. "Stupid car," he muttered.

"Excuse me?" Abby protested. "I learned on a Packard One Twenty. Manual everything. You've got power brakes, power steering, automatic transmission. There will be no whining."

"Humph," Owen said. He continued practicing, getting a feel for the pedals. They were so sensitive. And he had trouble reaching them, despite the seat being up as far as it could go. But he got better, the Buick crawling along in fits and starts.

"Alright," Abby said. "Time to try a little speed. Nothing major, though, OK? We're on a one-lane road surrounded by trees. There's not a lot of room for error."

A glint came into Owen's eye. His first time driving, he was going to do it right. He turned the radio on and found a rock station just as My Sharona started playing. He hit the gas and began bopping his head in time to the music. Getting chased by half the cops in the American Southwest; gorgeous, bad-ass, vampire girlfriend smiling at him; 300+ horsepower under the hood; jamming to The Knack; cruising down a dark road with no headlights. Life was good. He sped up.

"Not so fast!" Abby cried out. "Left! No, right!"

Owen slammed on the brakes, the car coming to a rest with the front bumper just barely touching an enormous aspen. Owen couldn't help himself: he laughed. "First he's gonna shit, then he's gonna kill us," he quoted.

Abby's face lit up. "Fast Times at Ridgemont High," she declared, identifying the film. "No dogs allowed in the shuttle, son. I'm afraid Scraps will have to be shot."

"Airplane," Owen replied, surprised that Abby knew movies. "Take _live_ tuna fish, and _feed_ them mayonnaise."

"Night Shift," she answered. "We're not having hot mush today. We're having cold mush." Owen didn't recognize this one. Abby quoted another line: "Why any kid would want to be an orphan is beyond me."

"Annie," Owen said. "Bring me four fried chickens and a Coke." This time Abby was stumped. "Your women. I want to buy your women." He waited a moment, then added, "Hey, boy, got my Cheez Whiz?" Finally he burst out, "Blues Brothers!"

"Hey!" Abby protested, slapping his arm. "I was gonna to say that!" She began tickling his stomach.

Owen responded in kind, discovering that Abby was sensitive everywhere: abdomen, armpits, knees, feet, neck. He wondered how wise it was to tickle a hungry vampire, but he couldn't help himself. She was giggling uncontrollably, and soon Owen was, as well.

He wasn't sure how it happened, but suddenly they found themselves in each other's arms. Owen's heart started racing. Abby took his right hand and pressed it against her chest. Owen could feel her heart pounding through her t-shirt. She leaned toward him and touched her forehead to his.

_Now is the perfect time to kiss her,_ Owen realized. He wanted to kiss her. He had to assume she wanted to be kissed. Certainly this moment begged for some kissing. But Owen didn't kiss her.

They separated after a minute and Owen continued driving. He navigated the gravel slowly, mystified at why he hadn't given his girl a smooch. He glanced at her, saw that she was beaming at him. So she wasn't upset. That was good. He thought back to the encounter in the basement when he had tried to enter a blood pact instead of just making out. _I didn't kiss her this time, either. But I didn't cause her to vamp._

* * *

><p>Early Friday Abby escorted Owen through the Santa Fe suburbs. Cars appeared twice, causing the fugitives to scurry off-road and hide in the brush. It was dangerous, walking the streets together, but Owen considered the risk minimal at this time of night. He compared the five neighborhoods they were studying to the map of Santa Fe. He wasn't really sure what he was looking for at three in the morning, but Owen's friends had made it clear he should case houses repeatedly before he tried to rob them.<p>

At one point Abby made a suggestion. "I know you're thinking about ringing doorbells to see if anyone's home. But there's a better way." She paused for a moment and added, "I'm getting hungry."

This concerned Owen. "Can you last another four days?" he asked.

"I think so," she said. "That's not what I mean. When I get hungry I can…sense prey. If I'm alone, I can open windows and tell if someone's home. At least I usually can."

"That's excellent," Owen decided. "Surprising people is the biggest risk."

"I can't always be certain," Abby qualified. "But I think it's better than ringing the bell."

Upon completion of the scouting mission they found a decent patch of forest near the suburbs. Owen led the way into the middle of these woods and reminded Abby of his instructions. "It can't be from around here. I know that's going to make it harder, but I can't have someone recognize it."

"I know," Abby said. She flew away.

Owen sat against a tree and opened his duffle bag. Flashlight, map, radio, sawed-off shotgun, baseball cap, pocketknife, food, water, toilet paper, gloves, oven cleaner, hammer, towels, magazines, books. It was a lot of stuff, but he was about to spend all day in these woods. He wanted to be prepared. He pulled out the map and the flashlight again and tried to visualize the developments they had just walked through.

Abby got back an hour later, bearing Owen's prize: a dirt bike suitable for the average thirteen-year-old. Owen thanked Abby, said goodbye, and let her head back to their hideout.

He rolled one towel into a pillow, used another as a blanket, and tried to get some sleep. By breakfast he was awake. The ground was uncomfortable and he was cold, despite wearing three t-shirts and a hoodie. He stomped his feet to warm them, then opened a can of corned beef hash and ate it cold.

Owen tuned the radio to Abby's station, but it wasn't long before he found himself getting sick of pop. The song Safety Dance was fun. And he liked Total Eclipse of the Heart, which he didn't understand but still wanted to share with Abby. Most of the music made him want to barf, though. He switched to classic rock.

He spent some time studying women's hairstyles in the magazines he had stolen. One article even gave directions: How to Make a Pouf. He memorized the list of required items. Eventually he switched to The Fellowship of the Ring. He kept glancing at his watch. It wasn't even noon.

It seemed like Abby slept a lot. She stayed in bed whenever the sun was up. Didn't that mean half the day? What was Owen supposed to do while she was sleeping? Should he try to match her routine? But even if he got all his sleep during daylight hours, that would still leave lots more time in which he was alone.

He tried to read. His mind kept drifting. Eventually it got to be 2:30. He hung the towels on a tree to help him find the spot, returned everything else to the duffel, which he left in place. Owen put on the baseball cap, picked up his new bike, and rolled it to the edge of the woods. He emerged onto the road and went for a ride.

Owen counted on four things to disguise him: the change in his appearance over the last six months, the baseball hat, the bicycle, and the fact that he was alone. He guessed that the last of these was the most important: everyone was expecting him and Abby to be together.

It took Owen 100 minutes to explore all five neighborhoods, by the end of which he was beat. He didn't like what he had seen. There were too many children. There was too much traffic. He reminded himself that the situation would improve. People would go out to restaurants, movies, football games, parties. That was one reason he had waited until Friday: more empty houses.

During his second tour Owen hit the jackpot. A family was loading suitcases into their van, a strong indicator they would be gone for the weekend, if not longer. A car sat in their open garage. Owen assumed they'd all be travelling in the van, leaving the other vehicle behind. He risked a second quick pass, trying not to stare. Then he headed back to his hideout in the woods. He had found what he was looking for.

Abby arrived a half-hour after sunset. They flew immediately to what Owen had already dubbed the "vacation home." After landing in the backyard, Owen let Abby begin inspecting the upstairs windows. The location was perfect. Lots of trees, no evidence of dogs. Abby couldn't find an unlocked window, so she went ahead and broke one. Owen didn't want to damage windows tonight if he could help it, but they had to make an exception here. This house was important.

After a few minutes Abby gave the all-clear and lifted Owen into an upstairs bedroom. He did a quick inspection as he had done before. No people, no dogs. A fairly comprehensive alarm system, though. Unfortunately this included the door into the garage. Owen rooted around the kitchen with his gloved hands, eventually finding what he hoped was a spare key to the car. He took out his hammer and began smashing drywall.

When the hole into the garage was big enough, Owen stepped through and got his first up-close look at the vehicle he hoped to steal. It was large, a Ford LTD, definitely big enough to carry all their stuff. Owen shined his flashlight into the driver-side window and smiled. The glass was tinted. The key opened the door. Owen got in and started the engine. They were in business.

The two of them developed a routine as the evening progressed. While Abby scouted for unoccupied dwellings, Owen expanded the hole into the garage and searched the vacation home for valuables. When she was ready she would fly Owen to a group of houses she considered reasonable targets. He always entered through a second-story window. He never stayed for more than fifteen minutes. He never took more than he could fit in his duffle. Tonight was about one thing: seizing high-value items and getting the hell out.

For the most part he restricted himself to five categories of loot: cash, jewelry, drugs, handguns, ammunition. The guys in juvie had taught him where to look, and he was amazed to discover the accuracy of their advice. People always seemed to hide money and weapons in the same places: under clothes, beneath mattresses, tucked away in closets. The jewelry sat in cases on bathroom counters and dresser tops, begging to be taken.

Owen hoped that by not forcing entry, and by not making a mess, people might take some time to realize they had been burglarized. Just to be on the safe side, however, Owen hit no other houses in the neighborhood containing the vacation home. It wouldn't do to have police scoping the area right as they were trying to make their escape.

At 10:30 Owen called it quits. He loaded everything into the LTD, grabbed a grocery bag containing the special items he had gathered, and had Abby fly him onto the vacation home's balcony. The balcony pleased Owen. No exterior fixtures were on, which together with the trees made the space safe from observation. He went to work.

First he cut open a large plastic trash bag and spread it near the sliding glass doors. He set an outdoor chair on top of this. He cut a hole in another garbage bag and pulled it over his head like a parka. Finally he produced a pair of electric trimmers, plugged them into an exterior outlet, and asked Abby to cut his hair.

The buzz took only a couple of minutes. Owen removed the bag from his shoulders and gestured Abby toward the chair. Her expression fell.

"Your hair is so beautiful," Owen professed. "I don't want to mess it up. But it has to go, Abby. I'm really sorry."

She relented and took a seat, clearly displeased. Owen covered her and organized his supplies: water, brush, scissors, blow-dryer, hairspray, and bobby pins. Owen ran his hand through Abby's hair. He had never actually done this before, and it made his fingers tingle. Owen shook his head and sighed. He had just robbed nine households. What he was about to do felt worse.

Owen had Abby lean back. He wet her hair and smoothed it out. Then he began cutting. He made it as short as possible on the sides and back, tapering to about five inches on top. With the low light and his lack of experience he knew he was butchering it. He kept reminding himself that the goal was simply to make Abby look different than her police sketch. She didn't have to like it. She just had to be disguised.

Liking it would certainly be nice, though. Owen wet her hair again and began blow-drying, using the brush to make it as frizzy as possible. As he continued to work he started to stroke interesting parts of Abby: her forehead, her ears, her neck. He brushed up against her shoulders. His heart was beating so fast he knew she could hear it.

Owen put the blow-dryer down and switched to hairspray. Abby studied him with a gentle expression, her mood no longer sour. Owen fought against frustration. The hair just didn't want to stand up. He tried using the bobby pins, but kept getting it wrong. Abby leaned forward and touched the sides of Owen's waist. His hands started shaking and he didn't understand why. He felt like he was going to faint.

He recognized the perfect opportunity to kiss Abby, but he was suddenly terrified of passing out. He stepped back and plopped into a deck chair. He waited for his head to clear. After a minute he picked up the grocery bag and handed it to Abby. "I found you an outfit," he said. "I hope you like it."

"Thank you," Abby said. She stood up and started undressing. It occurred to Owen that if he didn't do something, she was going to change right in front of him. He was all for seeing Abby naked, but this was just too much. He pushed himself up and hastened to the edge of the balcony, giving her some privacy.

When she had finished changing, Owen gathered up everything he had brought outside, along with Abby's dirty clothes and the hair they had cut. He carried the bag to the Ford, activated the garage opener, and started the car. He pulled down the driveway and closed the garage, then gave his seat to Abby. They headed for the forest.

"If we're lucky the owners won't get back until Sunday evening at the earliest," Owen explained. "By then we'll be across the Mississippi."

Abby drove through the woods as quickly as she could. Now was the time for speed. They reached their campsite, jumped from the car, and loaded their gear into the back seat. Owen hesitated over the Buick, which Abby had buried in logs and brush. The vehicle was covered with their fingerprints. Owen debated burning it, decided not to.

He turned to leave. Abby was leaning against the LTD, her hands behind her back. She wore white tennis shoes, blue designer jeans, and a fuzzy pink sweater with initials stenciled on the front. A gold pendant hung about her neck. Her short hair stuck up in what could only charitably be called a pouf. Owen took in the total package and thought he would die of excitement. She was so cute, so adorable, so irresistibly delicious.

Owen knew what had to be done. He walked up to Abby, took her face in his hands, and kissed her on the lips. "Let's go to New York," he said.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: New York**

"I want two adjoining rooms for a week," Owen announced.

"We rent by the hour," the night manager informed him.

Owen placed a thousand dollars on the counter. "A week," he insisted, picking up the keys and hastening outside. He led Abby from the car. She entered her room quickly and closed the door in Owen's face. Owen knew she couldn't last much longer. He slung his duffle over his head and went foraging for blood.

He found a junkie two blocks away. Owen offered him $50 for a pint. The man motioned to an alley. When they got there the addict thrust out his arm. Owen produced the necessary equipment and got to work.

Owen had studied a phlebotomy book during the drive to New York, but he had never inserted a real hypodermic into a real vein. He was terrified of sticking himself and getting hepatitis, or worse yet, the new disease called AIDS. Fortunately Owen's customer knew how to handle a needle. Blood started flowing through a plastic tube into the attached bag.

Another junkie appeared. Owen made him the same offer, which was promptly accepted. A third man joined them, and a fourth. Within a couple of minutes Owen was being mobbed. Everyone started clamoring for his money.

Owen realized these men weren't going to wait on the donation process. They were simply going to overwhelm him by force and take what he had. He considered the weapons hidden in his duffle, but what good did they really do him? Dispersing this crowd with gunfire would attract police attention. And the whole purpose in coming to New York was to disappear. Owen plucked some twenties from his pocket, threw them into the air, and ran.

He hurried to the hotel. He had just lost $500, and didn't have a single pint to show for it. He considered doing business from his car. Perhaps if he was in a vehicle he could control the number of people he was dealing with. It would be risky, though. The stolen Lincoln's North Carolina plates would stand out. And how many white thirteen-year-olds cruised around the hood at midnight?

As Owen approached the parking lot he discovered two nearly-naked women standing on the corner. He went up to them and got straight to the point. "I'll pay you each fifty dollars for a pint of blood."

"Say what?" one of the women replied.

"Make it a hundred," Owen pressed.

She put a hand on her hip and gave Owen a skeptical examination. "What you up to, child?"

Owen pulled two hundred dollars from his duffle and showed it off. "I've got money, and I want to spend it."

The lady shrugged. "Talk to the manager," she said, pointing to a Cadillac idling behind the hotel.

Owen walked over to the car, cash in hand. Two men got out: the black driver, enormous like a football player, and a skinny pimp dressed in the most ridiculous clothes Owen had ever seen.

"I need twelve pints of blood," Owen said. "I'll pay one hundred dollars per pint. I hope you've got twelve girls, because I've got twelve hundred dollars." Owen squatted on the pavement, withdrew more twenties from his duffle, displayed the currency. Then he started pulling out guns and arranging them on the ground.

The men took a step back when they saw the weaponry. "Since this is our first time doing business," Owen continued, "I'll throw in a piece for free. Except this one," he added, picking up the sawed-off shotgun and slinging it over his shoulder. "This one's mine."

"You crazy, boy?" the pimp asked.

"Yes," Owen said.

"You want the cops on you? Put that sh- away."

"Not until you take one," Owen insisted.

The pimp reached down and plucked a .45 from the macadam. He popped the clip, reinserted it, and loaded a round into the chamber.

"Guns, guns, guns," Owen said with a smile. He passed the man six hundred dollars. "I'm in room 114. Send the girls at fifteen-minute intervals, three or four at a time. When I have twelve pints you get the balance."

"What you gonna do with all that blood, boy?" the pimp asked.

"Does it matter?" Owen replied.

He packed the remaining weapons, hustled to his room, and set up shop. Within a few minutes the driver was at his door with the two prostitutes who'd been waiting on the street. Owen sat them on the bed and started rooting for veins. He felt awful about the pain he must be causing, but the women didn't seem to mind. Once he got flow started, Owen let the blood drip into three 2-liter bottles he had washed out in advance.

Donors rotated through. Several knew how to find a blood vessel, which helped a lot. Owen had raided four doctors' offices in Charlotte, so he had a variety of collection systems to work with. He started experimenting with different-sized needles.

The final group of women included one who couldn't be older than twelve or thirteen. Her similarity to Abby struck Owen at once. Not her overall appearance – she was well-developed, with dark brown hair and too much makeup. What reminded him of Abby was the look on the girl's face: gloomy, empty, haunted. The expression confused Owen. Abby looked this way because she had killed people. Had this prostitute killed people, too?

Owen tried to start a conversation: "Your…manager. What's his name?"

"Toast," the girl replied, not bothering to look Owen's way.

"And the big guy?"

"That's Slim."

"I'm Chase," Owen offered.

Now the girl did look at him. "Lisa," she said after a moment's pause.

Owen couldn't help himself. "Why are you here?" he asked.

"Why are _you_ here?" she responded, her voice weary.

Owen considered this for a minute. "I killed a boy in juvie," he answered. "I had to run."

"Yeah, right."

Someone knocked on the door. Owen got up and looked through the peephole, saw Slim waiting. Owen let the man in. He was alone.

"That's only ten," Owen protested.

"Can't get any more," Slim said.

Owen handed over four hundred dollars. "One hundred dollars per pint," he reminded the driver. "That was the deal." Slim counted the money and led the prostitutes out of the room. Owen locked the deadbolt.

As best Owen could tell, Abby normally ate full-grown men. His phlebotomy book said an adult male contained twelve pints of blood. Owen had ten. He had made Abby wait for so long. He really wanted to make sure she got what she needed. He opened a fresh needle and tapped his left arm, adding his own blood until the bottles were full.

Owen felt dizzy, but he couldn't stop now. He knocked on the door joining his room to Abby's. "Are you ready?" he whispered. A crack appeared. Owen slid the bottles through. The door slammed shut. Owen crawled into bed and passed out.

He awoke before noon with a terrible headache. He drank four cups of water, then stumbled to the car and brought in their stuff. He ate a pound of candy, but it didn't help. Owen walked to McDonalds, devoured six cheeseburgers. He returned to his room and went back to sleep.

When he arose again he found Abby sitting on his bed. The transformation in her mood was remarkable: beaming, bouncing, mouth-watering. She had showered and put on fresh clothes. Owen became aware of his body odor. He hadn't bathed since Santa Fe. He disappeared into the bathroom, drank what had to be a gallon of water, and emerged a half-hour later clean and eager to explore. "Let's have some fun," he said.

They strolled to dinner, a giant ferris wheel looming just a few blocks away. On the way they stopped at a hair salon. Abby disappeared inside, leaving Owen on the sidewalk to get his first real look at Coney Island.

Owen had heard of the ghetto, the slum, the hood. This was his first time standing in one. What struck him as most unusual was the swarm of people, some going quickly about their business, others hanging out with no apparent purpose. So many were black! There had been black boys in juvie, of course, but not like this. Boom boxes and passing cars blared street music. Bars protected most of the first-floor windows, although a number of structures seemed abandoned. Trash lay in piles everywhere. The smells were unfamiliar and rank.

Abby finally emerged from the salon, her hair done right. They walked to Nathan's, got seated in a booth, ordered food. Owen asked Abby if she'd ever been to New York.

"General Washington escaped Long Island," she said. "The British took the city."

Owen wasn't sure he had heard this right. "You mean _George_ Washington?" he asked.

"Things were…easy then. People expected the wounded to die."

Owen did the math. Independence Day was July 4, 1776. Today was September 14, 1983. "You're more than two hundred years old," he concluded.

Abby stared at the table. "It's all in pieces," she explained. "I can picture uniforms, weapons, officers. Events are jumbled. There's the Continental Army. There's the Army of Northern Virginia. I can't keep them straight."

"You're not the only one," Owen said. "Did you ever meet George Washington?"

"I don't think so. He fought the Indians. I remember that better than the other stuff he did."

The hot dogs and French fries arrived. Owen ate his. Then he ate Abby's. He drank both sodas, too. Abby watched him patiently, hands pressed against her cheeks. How perfect it was to see her smile!

The Cyclone roller coaster cost $1.50. Abby reached for the sky and screamed as loud as everyone else, although Owen figured she wasn't really scared. They waited in line for the Wonder Wheel, had their turn getting stuck at its maximum height. Some other time the view of the Atlantic Ocean might have impressed Owen. Right now he didn't care. He turned toward Abby and started caressing her face. She responded by wrapping her arms around his neck.

They made out on top of the world.

* * *

><p>The next night Owen and Abby took the bus to downtown Brooklyn, where they watched Return of the Jedi. During the ride back Owen lamented how the Star Wars series had concluded.<p>

"I hate those stupid Ewoks," he declared. "I'm going to hunt George Lucas and kill him. I hope you'll help."

"I thought they were cute," Abby said.

"Ugh!" They exited the bus just a block from the Wonder Wheel. "Hey," Owen said, "want to go for a walk on the beach?"

Abby's demeanor changed. "No, thank you," she said softly.

"Oh, come on," Owen insisted. "It'll be fun." He tried to take Abby's hand, but she wouldn't budge. "What's the matter?" he asked.

Abby glanced in the ocean's direction. "There's no cover," she said.

"Huh?"

"It's an open field of fire," she clarified.

"I see," Owen replied. He had no idea what she was talking about. "Why are you afraid of things?" he eventually asked. "Don't you basically live forever?"

Abby waited a while before responding. "I think sunlight could kill me," she suggested. "I know it burns me. I avoid it no matter what. Maybe I could starve to death, or bleed to death. I have strong…survival instincts. Does that mean I can die?"

"I hope not. You've lived for so long. I think it's great."

This seemed to upset Abby. She refused to discuss the matter further. But she did want to see the eleven o'clock news. They hastened to her room and turned on the TV Owen had bought that afternoon. While Abby watched her program, he set up a folding table and poured out a thousand piece puzzle. He plugged in his new boom box and tuned quietly through the New York stations, finding the ones that sounded promising.

By the time the news was over Abby's mood had improved. She and Owen sat side-by-side and began building the puzzle's edges. Owen identified artists as their songs played on the radio: Styx, Foreigner, Blondie, Tom Petty, The Cars. Abby seemed unimpressed. She threatened to change the channel.

"You just have to give rock a chance," Owen insisted.

"I saw Buddy Holly in concert, thank you very much."

"Who's Buddy Holly?"

They settled on a compromise. Even hours, Abby got to pick the music; odd hours, Owen. By three o'clock they were snuggling on the bed, Abby tucked up inside Owen's arms. She called it the "spoon position." She even said, "Let's spoon." She seemed to like spooning a lot.

Owen woke up about noon. He sensed Abby in the next room, wondered what time she had gone to sleep. She hadn't written him a note, but there was no need. He knew not to disturb her.

He took a shower and fiddled with _The Fellowship of the Ring_. He had liked _The Hobbit_. This book was boring. He put the novel down and peaked out his window. Toast's girls were starting to gather in the parking lot.

Owen went outside and found Lisa. She looked like she had slept in an alley. Owen figured she probably had. "Hey," he said. "Wanna grab some lunch?"

A voice interrupted: "Beat it, kid." Owen turned around to discover a large woman hovering over him.

"I'd like to spend some time with Lisa," Owen informed her.

"She's on the clock," the woman replied.

Owen handed over two hundred dollars. "I want her till five," he said.

The woman put the money in her purse and crossed the street. "You better have her back on time," she yelled.

Owen headed to McDonald's, Lisa trailing along. "Who was that?" Owen asked.

"Rosie?" Lisa replied. "She's bottom girl. She helps Toast run the business."

In the restaurant Owen bought ten cheeseburgers, then watched in amazement as Lisa ate seven of them. He had never seen a girl consume so much in a single meal. Except for Abby, of course.

"Toast and his boys are in the Crazy Homicides," Lisa explained. "That is one gang you do not want to screw with. Things are tense with the Russians trying to move on Coney. They say that bag of yours is packed with heat. I'd keep it close, if I were you."

Owen considered the duffle resting on his lap. It contained his shotgun, a box of 00 shells, three thousand dollars, a spare baseball cap, and two oversized beach towels. The handguns were stashed in Abby's bathroom.

He waited until lunch was finished, then made his proposal. "I need a bottom girl," he announced. "Someone who can help me run _my_ business."

Lisa stared at him, saying nothing. Owen could tell she thought he was full of crap.

"I'm in Brooklyn to obtain blood," Owen continued. "I need a minimum of twelve pints every two weeks. The Red Cross makes people wait eight weeks between donations. If I follow their pattern, that's two months before I can get more blood from your friends. So I'll have to establish relationships with other pimps. At least four, I think.

"I need someone to go around town and make contacts, help me set up my network. And I need a place to unload my car. I need a place to buy another car with a legal registration. I need info on what pawn shops are best for fencing jewelry. I need fake ID's."

"Toast would never let me do all that," Lisa objected.

"I will pay him for your time," Owen replied. "And I will pay you extra on the side."

"Why can't you do it yourself?"

"The more people I meet, the more dangerous things will get for us. I'm trying to hide. But I have to have blood." Owen pulled out three hundred dollars and placed it on the table. "This is for you," he said, "to let you know I'm serious. I really need a helper. I'd like it to be you."

* * *

><p>Eight days later Toast pulled up just as Owen and Abby were getting into their new Chevy. "Hey, Chase, where to?" the pimp asked.<p>

"Gonna rob some houses in Stuart Manor," Owen answered.

"No shit."

Owen laid on the back seat and covered himself with a sleeping bag. Abby put the Chevy in gear and headed out of Brooklyn.

Nothing frightened Owen more than driving. The problem, of course, was that there was simply no way he or Abby could ever pass for sixteen. They possessed a car that wasn't stolen. They carried fake driver's licenses that displayed their pictures. They wore sweatshirts bearing the names of local high schools. But no matter how good their disguises, a cop who saw either of them behind the wheel would start asking questions. Abby would have to kill him.

Because of the danger involved in driving, Owen couldn't case his targets in advance. He soon realized it didn't matter. Abby granted him access to second floor windows, she could sense if dogs or people were present, she kept watch from above, she guaranteed clean getaways. Owen would enter residences carrying a backpack, a flashlight, a can of oven cleaner, and an air horn. Abby kept an air horn, too. After filling his backpack with valuables in one location, Owen would have Abby fly him to their car, where he stuffed the loot into a suitcase. Then they would head back out for more.

As the night wore on Owen started taking greater risks. They struck houses with highly sophisticated alarm systems, ones that included wires on upper level windows and motion detectors in the bedrooms. Owen grabbed the jewelry and got out, confident that Abby's ability to fly would defeat even the fastest police response. By the time they called it quits and started back to Brooklyn, Owen was confident their three suitcases contained at least $100,000 in gold, gems, cash, and firearms.

Owen felt guilty robbing people. It didn't matter how rich his victims were. He was violating their space and stealing their stuff. At the same time, Owen found crime to be thrilling. Breaking into dark, unknown dwellings was such a rush. He wished they could hit more houses, just so he could keep feeling that surge of excitement.

They made it to their hotel about two hours before sunrise. Owen helped Abby carry the suitcases from the car, then returned to the parking lot. He found Rosie, paid her some money, and led Lisa to the hotel room he had rented for her. Once inside, Owen pulled out his phlebotomy text and a box of blood-drawing supplies.

"Veins in the arms are simplest," Owen explained, pointing to illustrations in the book. "It helps if some of them shoot up. They can show you how to do it. Remember, you don't have to do the punctures yourself. You just have to watch them happen. From the time the first drop falls into a bottle until the time you deliver it to my door, no more than an hour can pass. That's the key idea you always have to keep in mind: fresh blood. It has to be fresh. Old blood does no good. I'll just have to throw it away."

Owen picked up a two-liter bottle. "A pint is about five hundred milliliters. That means four pints will fill this bottle. You should fill bottle number one completely, then two, then three. That way we'll know which blood is oldest and which is freshest."

He displayed a hard plastic container for the disposal of medical waste. "Some of the blood will have diseases. Wearing gloves will help, but it's not enough. A needle will be most dangerous _after_ you withdraw it from a donor. If you stick yourself with it you can get whatever diseases they have. Treat it like a live bomb. Get it into the sharps box and never touch it again."

Slim arrived at the door with two girls who had not donated the previous week. Owen let Lisa draw their blood, watching to make sure she followed the written procedures. Then he took the fruit of Lisa's labors and headed down the hall.

He entered his room. Abby greeted him with a smile. "I know you must be hungry," Owen began, pulling the present from his bag. "I brought you a snack to hold you over."

When Abby saw what Owen was carrying, her smile vanished. She changed to her vampiric form, snatched the container from Owen's hands, and drained the liter of blood in seconds. "More," she demanded in a husky voice, stomping her foot. "More!"

Owen had seen Abby like this once before. He was terrified she was going to bolt from the room and attack someone. If Abby ate a random hooker in the parking lot, Alvirez would track them down. They'd have to flee New York.

He grabbed a blood kit as quickly as he could, broke the seal, and opened a vein in his arm. "No," the monster begged, but then she took the plastic tube in her mouth and started sucking. Owen settled onto the floor and leaned his head on the bed. The room began to spin.

At some point Abby stopped. Owen withdrew the needle and threw it aside. Abby buried her face in her hands and began sobbing. She shook her head violently. Owen reached out a hand to comfort her, but she jerked away. She hugged herself and rocked back and forth, utterly inconsolable.

Her crying grew into wailing. She fled to her room. Owen wanted to go after her. He wanted to tell her that everything was OK. He stayed where he was and blacked out.

Owen spent the next day in bed, shaking uncontrollably. He imagined the cracks in the ceiling were dancing. He drooled into both sides of his pillow. He had never felt so awful.

When Abby woke up she made Owen drink Coke until he had to go the bathroom. She brought food and fed it to him. She obtained extra blankets. She moved the TV. She cried on his chest.

By the following afternoon Owen had started to improve. Lisa arrived, and he gave her what she needed: bottles, needles, two thousand dollars. When his "bottom girl" returned at 2:30AM, Owen made Abby leave. Lisa produced nine units of blood: two bottles completely full, another containing a single pint. It would have to do. Owen pushed Abby's dinner into her room and shut the door.

* * *

><p>"What do you mean you've never been to the beach?" Owen asked. "It's only five blocks away."<p>

Lisa shrugged. "A lot of girls never make it there."

"Today's your day," Owen insisted. They turned right at the next intersection. Owen led Lisa over the boardwalk and onto the sand. The sun was still warm. He took off his shoes and socks and splashed in the waves. Lisa watched him, but she didn't go in.

Owen bought two plates of funnel cakes. They munched on the food while strolling east toward Brighton, hot grease burning their fingers. The Wonder Wheel receded slowly behind them.

"I have a girlfriend," Owen announced.

"I saw you with her the other night," Lisa said.

"You did?"

Lisa nodded. "She's pretty. What's her name?"

Owen lifted a sleeve and showed off his tattoo. "I did it in juvie. That was five months we were apart. It was really hard."

"I've never had a boyfriend," Lisa confessed.

They walked in silence until a sign declared they were entering Brighton Beach. They turned around and headed back to Coney.

"We go to the movies a lot," Owen continued. "We saw Risky Business last night. She likes old musicals, though, so sometimes I have to see those."

"Like what?"

"The King and I. My Fair Lady. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. There's more I can't remember. I can tell she's seen them a bunch of times. But she really likes seeing them again."

Lisa started singing:

I'm singing in the rain

Just singing in the rain

What a glorious feeling

I'm happy again

"Yeah, that was one," Owen said. "She wanted me to jump on a lamppost."

"Did you?"

"Yes," Owen admitted.

"Good," Lisa asserted. "When your girlfriend wants you to jump on a lamppost, you should jump on a lamppost."

"She's sick," Owen whispered. He came to a halt, wet sand squishing between his toes. "That's why she can't come out during the day. That's why she needs blood. I'm trying to make her better."

"Blood makes her better?"

"No, it's not that. I mean I'm trying to make her happier."

"Then why'd you bring her here? Everyone in Brooklyn is miserable."

"We have to be here. We can only buy blood from…" His voice trailed off.

"From hookers. Swell. You ever think about going to a hospital?"

"It's not like that," Owen said. "Doctors can't help her."

"And you can?"

"I think so. I hope so. She's sad all the time. I mean even when she's happy she's sad." _And sometimes she looks as bad as you do_, Owen added to himself. But he didn't say it out loud.

"I gave her a present last week," Owen continued. "It made her really upset. She cried for so long. But she wouldn't talk about it. She _won't_ talk about it. I don't understand her."

"Have you ever had a girlfriend before?"

"No."

"Do you have any sisters?"

"No."

"Women are complicated. They have emotions that men don't have. Or at least it seems that way. Women think differently. They feel differently. I like women. I don't like men. Present company excepted, of course."

Owen looked down at Lisa's feet. "Why did you choose this?"

"Why did you choose to be a burglar?"

"Because of Abby."

"Because of Abby," Lisa repeated, her tone sarcastic. "You love her, Chase? Is that it? You do it all for love?"

"I would die for her," Owen insisted.

"What's so special about that?" Lisa challenged. "Everyone dies."

Owen returned to his room just before Abby woke up. She knocked on their adjoining door. "Can I come in?" she asked.

"You can come in," Owen answered.

Abby entered and started bouncing on Owen's bed. "What movie you wanna see tonight?"

"What did I do wrong?" Owen demanded. "I gave you my blood so you wouldn't freak out. Don't you remember what happened to Virginia?"

Abby grew still. "I'm sorry," she said.

"I need to understand," he pressed. "Why did it make you so upset?"

She approached Owen and touched his face. "I can't hurt you. I can't."

"It hurts me when you don't talk to me. Tell me, please. What did I do wrong?"

Abby went back to the bed and sighed. She wouldn't look Owen in the eye. "It's better not to eat at all than only eat a little," she finally explained.

"So small meals are out? Snacks are out?"

Abby nodded.

"See, that's really helpful. I need to know that. Thank you. What else can you tell me?"

"Owen, can't we talk about something else?"

"Ugh!" Owen blurted. "I'm your boyfriend. I'm trying to help you. But I need you to…talk to me. Even about stuff you don't want to talk about."

The distant look was on Abby's face in full force. She sat there, staring into space, saying nothing.

They never made it to the movies.

* * *

><p>"Toast doesn't like how much time I'm spending with you," Lisa informed Owen.<p>

"I'll pay him more," Owen said.

"The hotel manager doesn't like my friends staying here," she added.

"I'll pay him more."

Lisa spread a large map of New York on her bed. She started marking intersections with a red pen. "I've purchased blood in Brighton Beach, East New York, Bushwick, and Williamsburg," she explained. "I've made additional contacts in Bed-Stuy and here in Coney Island. I'm thinking we could also expand into Queens and Lower Manhattan if we have to."

Owen nodded. "I wish you could get twelve pints at a shot."

Lisa raised her hands. "The problem is the freshness requirement. The girls take turns donating. By the time I get to seven or eight pints I have to run."

"So we move to the weekly schedule. Hopefully eight pints once a week will work as well as twelve pints every other week."

"I don't really understand," Lisa admitted. "Sixteen is more than twelve."

"She seems to require a certain minimum amount every time she feeds," Owen said. "I think four pints is the minimum to clear her bloodlust. It takes eight pints to really change her mood. I always make sure she gets at least eight pints."

"What about the times I brought you seven?"

"I added my own to make up the difference."

Lisa pondered this. "Your girlfriend's got issues," she concluded.

Owen couldn't argue with that. He hated guessing at what Abby needed. She had told him she could only consume fresh blood. But what did that mean? Warm? Clean? Tasty? And how much, exactly, did she require? Eight pints every week ought to satisfy her. Owen didn't really know, though. Maybe she preferred to glut herself. Maybe she _needed_ to glut herself.

Lisa switched to a blue marker and began circling neighborhoods. "You've hit houses in Stuart Manor, Munsey Park, and Old Field. I'm thinking you should change your pattern, try something other than Long Island."

"We need to stay close," Owen said. "Driving is the biggest risk we take."

"Well. Since we're on the topic of risk management, a gun you stole got used in a robbery last week."

"So?" Owen asked.

"So guns have serial numbers. They're easy to trace. You shouldn't have me passing them out to every person I meet."

"It's a good way to get someone's attention."

"It's a good way to get arrested. Stick to jewelry. Leave the guns where you find them."

Owen pursed his lips, but said nothing. Lisa was right. He didn't need to take the guns. Actually, he didn't need to take anything. Over a quarter of a million dollars now lined Abby's bathtub. It was a nuisance to carry all that cash when they went out together, but there was no getting around the money-hoard's significance: they didn't have to keep tripping into the suburbs.

He wondered if he was getting too used to danger. There had been close calls. He broke into a supposedly unoccupied home, only to hear someone stumbling about the kitchen. A pawn shop he frequented got raided by the police. Seven of Toast's girls got arrested in a vice sweep. Perhaps he and Abby were staying too long in Brooklyn. It might make sense to move to another city – Boston, perhaps, or Philadelphia.

But Coney Island wielded a huge advantage: amusement parks. White teenagers were always on the streets. Owen and Abby blended in. Plus Owen had built his network. He looked at the map, considered all the hard work he and Lisa had done over the last eight weeks. If they switched locations, the network-building process would have to be repeated from scratch.

"Hey, Chase, still with me?"

"Right," Owen said, trying to focus. "How's Carlos working out?"

"He knows the streets," Lisa said. "Next time I'm going to have him draw the blood."

"Is it true what they're saying about Gina?"

Lisa's voice turned angry. "Just 'cause she turned up dead doesn't mean she OD'd. Over a hundred working girls have been killed in New York this year."

"Is that why I'm able to get away with it? So many girls are getting murdered the police don't care about them selling their blood?"

"They don't care about us at all," Lisa replied.

Owen shook his head. He had said hi to Gina just three days ago. Brooklyn might possess what he needed, but that didn't make him hate it any less. So much poverty and dirt and desperation. And Owen wasn't helping things any. He especially hated how he was taking advantage of the girls. He was using their bodies, just like any other paying John. The uncleanness of it drained him.

But Abby had now gone two months without killing anyone. That was the core definition of success in this venture. Owen had given her a new life. A life without murder. A life without death. If he kept at it, Abby's spirits were sure to improve. He just had to persevere.

Owen rubbed his eyes, wishing for some coffee. Abby would be awake soon, and she would want to go out. All Owen wanted to do was go to bed. It had become a problem recently, the constant fatigue. He didn't even read anymore. He just zoned out in bed. The extra rest didn't seem to help, though.

"What's your real name?"

"Huh?" Owen said. He had faded out again.

"Your real name," she repeated.

"Owen," he told her. "What's yours?"

"Would you go back if you could?" Lisa asked.

"New Mexico doesn't really want me."

"But if you _could_. Imagine waking up in your own room. Going to school. Doing homework. Playing volleyball. Imagine it, Owen. Imagine going back."

Owen shrugged. He didn't want to go back. But did he want to stay? Did he want to live the rest of his life in this slum, stealing and hiding and scrounging for blood? He excused himself and went to the bathroom.

When Owen returned he found Lisa sitting on the bed, her knees tucked beneath her chin. She had wrapped her arms around her legs. She did not seem aware that Owen was in the room. The look in her eyes was horrible: vacant, abject despair.

Owen realized he was seeing Lisa alone, or at least when she thought she was alone. He had never seen Abby like this, in a moment when she thought no one else was present. _Is this what Abby looked like when I was in juvie? Is this what Abby looks like after I fall asleep?_

Owen crept from Lisa's room with fresh resolve. He would try harder. He would do more. He would watch Abby's movies. He would listen to Madonna. He would spoon for three hours every night. He would make sure his girlfriend never, ever caused the death of another human being. _Whatever it takes, however long it takes, I will heal Abby's soul._

* * *

><p>Owen emerged from the pawn shop with fifteen thousand dollars in his bag. Lisa had been keeping watch outside. The two of them hooked up and walked to the bus stop.<p>

"We've cleared over two hundred thousand from Thanksgiving weekend," Owen informed her. "Guess I'll have to give you a bonus."

"Don't get carried away," Lisa warned. "How much you putting out each week? It's gotta be a lot."

"Let's see," Owen said. "3K to Toast. 2K to the hotel. A thousand to you. Another to Carlos and the drivers. Then a thousand for blood, of course. Call it eight thousand per week."

"That's a lot of cash you're burning through."

"It's all about the jewelry," Owen explained. "A single house can yield ten, twenty thousand dollars. Sometimes even more."

"You know, sooner or later burglars always get caught."

"They don't have Abby."

The bus took them to Coney. They got off and headed for the hotel.

"I've haven't heard you mention the movies lately," Lisa commented.

"I keep falling asleep," Owen confessed. "It's kind of embarrassing. It's all I ever do."

"You're like an old married couple."

Owen winced. "We had another fight," he said. "Something stupid. It just annoys me that she sleeps so much. It annoys me she doesn't mind being in this place. I mean look at it. It's awful. But she doesn't even notice where she is."

"Maybe she's in love," Lisa suggested.

"I don't know," Owen continued. "I keep expecting something. Some change. Some difference. Nothing I do seems to matter. I don't even know if she appreciates me."

Lisa stopped. "Do you love her, Owen?"

"Yes. Of course I do."

"Do you tell her you love her?"

Owen considered this. He couldn't remember if he had ever actually spoken the words.

"Promise me," Lisa urged. "Promise me you'll tell her you love her."

Two teenagers appeared in front of them. "Hey, boy," one of them said, pointing at Owen's bag. "What you got?"

Owen had long since upgraded from his old Remington. He whipped out a PGS-10 tactical shotgun and aimed it at the speaker's center of mass. "I got buckshot, bitch," he said. "What you got?" The two would-be attackers ran off. "Yeah, that's right," Owen yelled after them. "Sissies!"

Lisa grabbed Owen's hand and led him down an alley. "Put that thing away," she demanded. "What do you think you're doing?"

Owen shrugged. After killing a man with his bare teeth, chasing off a couple of street punks didn't seem like that big a deal. The next instant Owen's legs gave out beneath him. Lisa caught him as he fell. "You wear too much perfume," he said. Then he fainted.

Owen woke up to find himself lying on an examination table. An IV fed blood into his right arm. Lisa stood up from a chair and went to the door. "He's awake," she announced. He panicked at the thought of being in a hospital. But Lisa would never do something that stupid. Owen studied the room. It looked like a doctor's office.

A man in a white coat entered, carrying a file. "Hello, Chase," he said, "I'm Doctor Rowse. Do you know why you're here?"

"We were on the street," Owen recalled. "That's the last thing I remember."

"You had an episode of syncope," the doctor informed him. "That means you fainted." He examined Owen's eyes, face, and hands. "Is your skin normally this color?"

"Huh?"

"There's a pallor to your skin. It's not healthy. Have you been sick? Do you have any other symptoms?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

Lisa interrupted. "He's tired all the time," she said.

"Do you have hemophilia?" the doctor asked.

"No," Owen answered.

Doctor Rowse opened his chart. "Your tests say you're anemic. Do you know what that means?"

"No."

"Have you had a recent injury in which you lost a lot of blood?"

Owen glanced at his left arm. He wondered if the doctor could notice the puncture marks.

"They say there's someone on the street paying cash for blood," the doctor said. "If you've been doing that it would explain your scores. Your red blood cell count is way down. You're receiving a unit now, but that's all I can give you. You need to be in a hospital. You need a transfusion."

"The body replaces blood in a day," Owen argued.

"Your body replaces blood volume in a day," Doctor Rowse clarified. "But it's red blood cells that actually carry oxygen to your tissues. After you lose a pint of blood it takes your body at least four to six weeks to replace the red blood cells. And that's your problem. You don't have enough. You need to go to the hospital."

"We can't do that," Lisa said.

"Alright," the doctor said. "Then at least get as much rest as you can. Eat food high in iron. Red meat, especially, but also green leafy vegetables. Start taking a multivitamin with iron. Get extra iron pills, too. Take them three times a day. And for God's sake, whatever you do don't lose any more blood."

The doctor blathered on, trading information and advice with Lisa. Hemoglobin, hematocrit, mean corpuscular volume – none of it made sense. But in the midst of all the medical jargon, Owen managed to figure out one thing quite clearly: he was killing himself.

* * *

><p>Owen spent the next two weeks in bed. Lisa nursed him during the day. Abby nursed him at night. He didn't tell Abby what was wrong with him, and Abby didn't ask. She fed Owen, and snuggled with him, and made him take his vitamins.<p>

Lisa purchased some medical textbooks. She read to Owen each afternoon, and he slowly came to understand the depth of his folly. The word "volume" meant how much total space a fluid took up. Just because he had enough blood _volume_ didn't mean he had enough blood. Or enough of what he needed _in_ his blood, anyway.

Blood was a complex substance. There were different types, apparently, and you couldn't give one type to a person who had another type. Except O-negative. That was called universal donor. Red cells were blood's most important component. They were suspended in a fluid called plasma. After a person donated blood, the body quickly replaced the plasma. But red cells were produced in the bone marrow, and this process took time. Owen wondered what part of the blood Abby actually digested. Was it the red cells, the plasma, or both?

Owen decided that on donation nights he should contract with two different pimps at the same time. That way if each produced even as little as four or five pints, the total would still be enough for that evening. He informed Lisa of his new plan. She agreed it was a good idea, although they would have to hire a second bottom girl to make it work.

Owen woke up on Christmas day to find that he was alone. He swallowed some vitamins and ate a bag of beef jerky. Then he went in search of Lisa. She didn't answer her door, so Owen used his key and entered.

Lisa lay motionless on her bed. The air reeked of blood. It took Owen a moment to realize what he was seeing. Then he was on top of Lisa, slapping her face and shaking her shoulders. Her flesh was cold. Colder than Abby's. "No," he shouted. "No, no, no!"

He realized Lisa's wrists had been cut. Her blood had saturated the mattress, and now it soaked up into Owen's jeans. He got off the bed and started throwing things.

At some point he discovered an envelope with the name "Owen" written on the outside. He pulled out a letter and read. He had never touched Lisa before, but now he couldn't stop. He kept stroking her face and her arm, trying to wake her up.

He collapsed on the floor. For a long time he sat there, staring at Lisa's dead body, crumpling and rereading the note she had left him. Eventually he roused himself. He returned to his room, got cleaned up, and loaded the car.

He let Abby in a little after sunset. "Where is everything?" she asked.

"Have you ever eaten without killing?" Owen demanded. Abby took a step back, looking like she had just been punched. "In all your time alive, have you ever gotten blood this way? In a way that doesn't result in the death of other people?"

Abby took another step back and shook her head.

"Why isn't it helping?" Owen shouted.

"I don't want this," Abby said.

Owen was at a loss. Alvirez' words came to him: _Does Abby want to kill people? Does Abby like to kill people?_ Abby despised what she did. She despised herself. That's why she wouldn't talk to Owen. She was ashamed.

"You're changing," Abby added.

"I'm doing this for you," Owen shot back. "Don't you care?" But that was the problem: Abby _didn't_ care.

_It's not working,_ Owen realized. He wanted to make Abby better. What did that even mean? Was he going to make her happy? Healthy? Whole? _Could_ you heal a vampire? _Could_ you make a vampire whole? What was he really trying to accomplish?

Owen packed up their remaining stuff and drove them to a hotel in Brighton Beach. He checked Abby in, then walked fifteen blocks to a pay phone. He dialed 911.

"There's a dead girl at the Salty Breeze Hotel in Coney Island," he informed the dispatcher. "Room 122. Her street name's Lisa. Her real name is Caroline Tanner. She's from the Bronx." Owen hung up.

Owen took a detour on his way back to the hotel. He stepped over winos, over needles and trash and human waste. He broke down in tears, grief crushing him into the alley's filth. The sound of his crying echoed off the walls.

The ghetto didn't care.

* * *

><p>On New Year's Day Owen waited in his room for Carlos. Owen had a package prepared: needles and cash to be used in the evening's collection. It was already four o'clock in the afternoon. The man was late. And Abby was hungry. They had been laying low since Lisa's death, but they couldn't wait any longer. Abby needed to eat.<p>

A knock came at the door. Owen glanced through the peephole, saw that it was Carlos. When he opened the door three large men rushed inside. Owen backed up quickly, blocking the entrance to Abby's room. He wished he could go for his shotgun, but his duffle was sitting too far away.

The men spread out. They wore nice suits. They had broad chests and blue eyes. The one in the middle pulled a piece of paper from his jacket and took several steps toward Owen. He stared at him for a long time. Then he handed the paper over.

It was a wanted poster. Owen's picture was printed on the top. A $100,000 reward was being offered for his arrest. Beneath him there was a sketch of Abby, labeled with the number $1,000,000. Owen counted the zeros to make sure he had it right. A million dollars. They were offering a million dollars for Abby.

"She's in there, isn't she?" the man asked, his voice slurred by a foreign accent. "The vampire girl."

Owen didn't know what to do. He assumed these strangers were armed, but that didn't really concern him. What he was afraid of was that they would bust in on Abby. She would tear them to pieces. Everything Owen had slaved for would be ruined.

"I want you out," the man informed Owen. "Out of Brooklyn. Out of New York."

"I have money," Owen said. "I'll pay you."

"I don't want your money. I want you gone."

"Why?"

"Because you're trouble. Because I don't like you. Because I said so."

Owen felt the door against his back. "She can't go in the sun," Owen protested. The man closed on him.

"I'll leave now," Owen agreed. "We'll leave. But you've got to back off. And I mean out of the building, out of the parking lot. If she wakes up sensing danger, she will kill you."

The man laughed. "Just so we're clear," he elaborated. "I've put the word on the street about you two. People are going to kick you to the curb. Understood?"

Owen nodded.

"You've got ten minutes."

The men departed. Owen figured he was about to become Abby's next meal, but he had no choice. He went into her bathroom and pulled the blankets off her face. "Abby," he implored. "Abby, you have to wake up." She didn't stir, but Owen wasn't about to touch her. He kept calling her name until her eyes opened. Then he retreated fast.

"I'm sorry, Abby. Something's happened. We have to go now. I'm sorry." He starting packing, stuffing their three suitcases with money, clothes, and whatever else would fit. He hauled the luggage outside and threw it into the Chevy's trunk.

When he got back inside he found Abby sitting against the wall, her chin on her chest. The monster had not surfaced, but Owen could tell it was close. He put shoes on Abby's feet and thick gloves on her hands. He pulled a ski mask over her face, then wrapped her head and neck in a scarf. He draped a trench coat over her shoulders. He grabbed his duffel and an umbrella and dragged Abby to the hotel's lobby.

Owen guessed it was about 4:30 PM. The sun was low but still bright. He opened the umbrella to provide Abby with extra shade and guided her quickly to the car's backseat, where he buried her under sleeping bags. He got behind the wheel and took off.

Abby had gone twelve days without eating. Normally that would mean she could last a little longer. But she had been awakened in a state of danger and forced to walk through sunshine. Owen knew she was about to vamp. The sun would go down and someone would die.

He drove to Methodist Hospital in downtown Brooklyn. The emergency room parking lot was well-shaded. Owen found a spot and told Abby to stay where she was. He picked up his bag and rushed into the building.

He hurried down a flight of stairs, sprinted through a corridor. He burst into the blood bank, surprising two techs in lab coats. Owen displayed a stack of cash.

"I need to steal twelve pints of blood," he announced. "I'll pay you ten thousand dollars to look the other way." The men gazed at Owen, speechless. He produced additional currency. "Twenty thousand." The techs exchanged looks. "The next thing coming out is a gun," Owen exclaimed. "Give me what I want."

One of the techs opened a refrigerator and lifted out a bin labeled "A-Positive." Owen snatched a dozen units. He left the money on the counter and ran.

By the time he made it to the car the sun had nearly set. He got in the backseat with Abby, forced her to slide over. He cut open a bag of blood and handed it to her.

Abby's face changed to an ugly, mottled hue. Her eyes glowed yellow. She seized the blood and drank it. She motioned for more, put her head between her legs, and vomited.

Owen cut open another bag, pressed it to Abby's lips. She tasted the blood and spit it out.

Owen was desperate. Now that Abby had tried to feed she would be completely out of control. The next person who walked past their car would die. Owen knew what he had to do. He withdrew a needle assembly from his bag and punctured a vein in his arm.

"Don't," the monster growled. "Please, please don't." Then she bit the tube and started feeding.

Owen settled against the seat, his hands clutching two bags of A-Positive. He hated Brooklyn. He hated grimy streets and boarded windows and loud black music. He hated the slum-stench that the ocean breeze never scrubbed away. Such a merciless city. It consumed human beings, transforming the living into a swarm of undead. Merciless, and mocking: Owen was about to bleed to death in Brooklyn with ten units of blood sitting in his lap.

As he lost consciousness a jumble of thoughts swirled through his mind. He should have saved Lisa. He should have said I love you. He should have stayed away from Brighton. He should have studied medicine instead of law, figured out his blood type, and learned to do a transfusion. He should have stolen O-Negative.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Cherokee**

Owen opened his eyes to discover two things: he was in a sleeping bag, he was alive. He sat up in the Chevy's back seat. The car was surrounded by snow-covered trees. The sun was just coming up.

He shivered violently, realized the cold had awakened him. He emerged from the Chevy onto a rocky hillside. A tent containing Abby was set up in the snow. Wood had been arranged on a bare patch of ground. More sticks sat in an adjacent pile. Owen discovered a can of lighter fluid and a box of matches sitting on the hood of the car. He lit the fire and started warming himself.

Owen felt good. Too good. He stomped about the blaze, wishing he knew where they were. He searched the car and found a newspaper on the Chevy's front seat. The headline read "Hospital Massacre." His eyes went wide as he skimmed the article. Abby had killed four people at Methodist Hospital: a social worker, a nurse, a security guard, and a police officer.

A blinding rage swept over Owen. He shouted, he cursed, he ran around the camp site throwing stones and beating on logs. Everything he had tried to accomplish – wasted. How could she do this to him? How could she be so selfish, so shortsighted, so ungrateful? He had endured that sewer of a city for her. And this was how she repaid him.

He stormed back to the newspaper and read more carefully. It was the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette dated January 2, 1984. Was that today? If so, the incident in the hospital parking lot had occurred just last night. But that made no sense. He should be comatose from blood loss.

Owen guessed at what had happened. Abby must have taken him into the emergency room. That was the only possible explanation for why she would enter the building. The doctors gave him a transfusion. Then Abby grabbed him, fought her way out, and drove to Pittsburgh.

Owen couldn't believe how badly he had messed everything up. If only he had let Abby feed on some random stranger! Only one person would have died. It was because he had insisted on giving her his own blood that a slaughter had taken place. Guilt pounded him in merciless waves. He had been trying to _save_ lives. He had failed.

He had failed at hiding, too. Three mass-murders in just ten months: Los Alamos Middle School, Bernalillo Juvenile Detention Center, Brooklyn Methodist Hospital. It was not lost on Owen that all three incidents had happened because of him. He had forever cost Abby her ability to move beneath the radar.

The newspaper carried pictures on the front page. Owen's was still his old photo from juvie. The sketch of Abby, however, had been updated. It displayed her with short hair, jeans, and sneakers. Owen swore again. Her disguise had been so precious. It had enabled them to appear together in public. Now it was useless.

Owen decided he was going to have to abandon his dream, at least for the time being. They would no longer be able to buy blood. Alvirez was probably already on the ground in New York. By the end of the day he would have questioned Toast, Carlos, and half the girls in South Brooklyn. He would know Owen's strategy. He would be on the lookout for blood purchases in other cities.

It was time to pursue a much more basic objective: survival. Could they manage to survive without getting caught? Owen pulled a map from the Chevy's glove compartment. Pittsburgh was located in the western part of Pennsylvania. The map showed the area to be full of mountains, and the ridge on which he was standing certainly qualified, at least by East Coast standards. The question was where to go from here.

He didn't like this part of the country. It was too full of people. He wanted to head back west, get lost in the open expanses. He thought of California, but they didn't dare go through New Mexico or Colorado. And if he had to sleep in a tent the whole way, it was too cold to attempt Wyoming. He started examining the Southeast.

As the morning wore on, Owen came to understand that Abby had put the newspaper on the seat so he could find it. She realized he needed to know about the incident at the hospital, but she didn't want to talk about it. Likely she was afraid he would get angry. Owen decided he was glad Abby had set the paper out for him. It gave him time to process. It gave him time to cool down.

When Abby woke up Owen greeted her with a smile. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," she replied.

"You saved my life last night, didn't you?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, hesitant.

"That's three times you've rescued me. Thank you."

Owen could see how relieved this made her. She started kissing him all over his face.

"It looks like we're back to camping," Owen informed her. "I think I know a place."

They stole a Ford cargo van from the Pittsburgh suburbs and drove it back to their site. Owen walked Abby to a stream and set out supplies: toiletries, towel, fresh clothes, plastic bag. "Do what you need to do," Owen said. "You can clean up here. Meet me back at the tent." Abby took a moment to consider this. Then she touched her forehead to his, gave him a sad smile, and flew off.

Owen moved their belongings to the van and waited, listening to the Pittsburgh radio stations. He felt remarkably awake and alert, despite having not eaten for over twenty-four hours. He wondered how much of his blood Abby had consumed. He wondered how many units they had given him in the emergency room. He hoped the transfusion hadn't given him AIDS.

When Abby returned, Owen took the bag of dirty clothes from her and stuffed it under a rock. "All set?" he asked. Abby nodded. They loaded into the van and drove to West Virginia.

The first place they robbed in Morgantown was a camping supply store. Owen didn't know what they would need, so he grabbed at least two of everything: arctic sleeping bags, cooking gear, frame backpacks, hiking boots, water filters. It didn't matter what it was; if he saw it, he took it. He always took the most expensive items. This included a mound of clothing, and every scrap of food the store contained.

They moved on to a supermarket. Owen seized toiletries, duct tape, kitchen supplies, paper products, plastic bins, and additional food. This maxed out the van's capacity, but Owen stopped at a high school anyway. There was one more category of loot he needed to steal.

Owen had enjoyed Lisa reading out loud to him. He told Abby to head to the library and pick out some novels. Meanwhile he headed through the halls and started breaking into classrooms. He stole math and science textbooks, reams of paper, and the random contents of six teacher's desks: pencils, pens, scissors, compasses. He threw it all into a bag and ran.

By dawn they had made it to Roanoke, Virginia. They waited out the day in a rural spot, after which they stole a Jeep CJ7 with oversized tires. Only Abby could drive stick-shift, so Owen drove the Ford while Abby followed behind in the Jeep. They arrived in a western North Carolina town. Abby pulled over and got out. Owen joined her.

Two small rivers came together in the town's center, but this was not what attracted Abby's attention. She pointed instead at a nearby hill. "That's Fort Butler," she said. "Or at least it was."

Owen glanced at his map. "It says this town's called Murphy."

"General Scott gathered the Indians here," she continued. "They marched them to Tennessee. We followed."

Owen was interested, but there was too much to do before sunrise. They drove the vehicles north. When they stopped again Owen explained what he wanted.

"We're going to camp in these mountains," he said. "I need you to scout several places for us. We drive the van as far as we can, then unload it. We use the Jeep to carry our supplies as far as it will go. And from there we pack in. That's three places I need you to find: where we unload the van, where we drive the Jeep to, and where we end up when we're all finished. Can you do that in the dark?"

"I like the dark," Abby said. She took off toward the ridge line.

Owen paced while she was gone, aiming his shotgun at shadows. It was after midnight on a freezing cold dirt road in the middle of nowhere, but he was still nervous. He was glad when Abby made it back.

She led the way to the spot she had chosen. They unloaded their gear quickly. Then Owen had them get back in the vehicles and head down to Georgia. After an hour drive he pulled off beside a large lake. He had Abby get out and study the map with him.

"This is where we are," he informed her. "The park to the northeast is Chattahoochee National Forest. I want you to do your hunting in a circle around this park. That will make Alvirez think we're in Georgia. Can you get down here and back in a night?"

"Probably not," Abby said.

"Then you really will have to stay in the forest. But I need you to do this. He's going to track your pattern. We need to give him a false pattern to follow. Can you do that?"

"I can."

They pushed the van into the lake and drove the Jeep back to North Carolina. By the time they made it to their stash of supplies the sky was beginning to lighten. Abby erected her tent and went to sleep.

Owen tried to keep watch over her, but it was hard after driving all night. He kept dozing off no matter what station he played. There was nothing but country music, anyway.

When Abby arose they began using the Jeep to shuttle their food and equipment deeper into the mountains. The task required a lot of trips, for the Jeep had little in the way of cargo capacity. Abby tried to teach Owen how to operate the manual transmission, but he soon gave up. Abby knew what she was doing, and there was no time to experiment.

After the last batch of stores had been delivered, Owen gestured to the pile. "This is our supply base," he said. "We'll have to leave most of it here for now, but hopefully each night you can fly more of it to our campsite."

Abby drove the Jeep to Georgia, dumped it in the lake, and flew back. Then the two of them hoisted backpacks and hiked to their new home in the Unicoi Mountains.

* * *

><p>Owen felt someone shaking him. He pushed the person's hands away. The shaking persisted. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. It felt so wrong, waking up before dawn. But he had insisted that Abby get him up. She kissed him on the cheek and retired to her tent.<p>

He built a fire with difficulty, holding a flashlight in one hand while arranging the wood. He drew water from the small creek that ran nearby, pumped it through a filter, and set it over the flames. By the time he had his coffee made the sky had brightened. It was Friday, January 6, 1984.

Owen turned on the small radio he had carried in his pack, meditated on the misery of country and western music. If only they had broken into a record store and stolen some tapes. He wondered if he could handle three months without rock 'n' roll.

The pine wood smelled nice as it burned. Owen spent several hours gathering firewood, peeling off layers of clothing as the activity warmed him. He tried to dig a latrine, but the ground wasn't dirt; it was rock. He settled for relieving himself a little ways down the valley and burying the waste in a few inches of soil.

It wasn't until 10:00 AM that the sun finally peeked over the eastern ridge. Owen guessed Abby had chosen this location deliberately. Even during daylight their camp would be shaded most of the time. He climbed the ridge, found a bald patch on top. He admired the view. There was no sign of human habitation.

He returned to his fire and built a seat out of logs. He started studying his maps. They were in Cherokee County, North Carolina. But this place was also called the Appalachian Mountains, the Blue Ridge Mountains, the Unicoi Mountains, and Nantahala National Forest. It confused him. He didn't understand why there had to be so many names.

Owen rehydrated a meal. He didn't really like the food; it contained too many vegetables. He supposed it was better for him than McDonald's. He took a deep breath of mountain air and jumped up and down. He washed his face in the stream and built a dam for fun. It was disturbing to realize how much the anemia had affected him. Giving blood to Abby had been embarrassingly stupid.

Had Brooklyn been worth it? Owen did the death math. Five guards killed at Bernalillo. Four workers killed at Methodist Hospital. But in between almost four months without Abby killing anyone. Was that ten people Abby would have eaten? Had Owen saved ten lives? Did that make up for the people she had slaughtered rescuing him?

Had Brooklyn helped Abby? Owen had given her a precious gift: fifteen weeks of murderless blood. Had it actually made a difference, though? Coney Island had certainly worked a change in her mood, but he couldn't pretend it had been a change for the better. He had tried to improve Abby's spirits. He had failed.

When Abby arose she flew to the supply base and brought back a pile of stuff, including two folding chairs. They settled in front of the fire, Owen playing with his shotgun and occasionally blasting random trees with birdshot. For whatever reason Abby thought this was hilarious. Her reaction pleased Owen. He loaded more shells.

"It seems like you always fight with your hands," Owen said. "Have you ever used a gun? I mean against someone."

"No," Abby answered.

"But you know so much about guns."

Abby thought about this. "I have strong survival instincts," she explained. "There are things I feel like I have to avoid: sunlight, people, open spaces. There are other things I feel like I have to do. The urge to run and hide can get very strong. I feel urges to follow the news and learn about guns. I don't understand it. It's just something I have to do."

Owen considered the narrow gorge with its thick growth of pine trees. Abby certainly didn't have to worry about open spaces here. He squeezed off a few more rounds.

"I don't know where we are," he said. "We need better maps. Close-in maps showing just this area. We need to find the nearest trails."

"This is a good hiding place," Abby replied. "The road south of here, that used to be the Unicoi Turnpike. It doesn't look like it's important now. And these mountains used to have Indians in them. Not anymore."

"You said you followed the Indians."

"They took them to Fort Cass first. Then they marched them to Oklahoma. We pursued them."

"Who was with you?" Owen asked.

Abby paused before replying. "Her name was Sarah. She was a camp follower. She served the soldiers. We tracked Indians in Oklahoma, Dakota, Wyoming – wherever the soldiers went. I was her sister first. Then I was her daughter. She got camp disease."

Owen figured this was as good an opening as he was ever going to get. "The man with you in Los Alamos," he began. "You said he wasn't your father. What was his name?"

"Thomas," Abby said, her voice distant.

"What happened to him?"

"He got captured. He killed himself."

This took Owen aback. "Why do people do it?" he asked. "Why do they kill themselves?"

The question seemed to disturb Abby. Owen waited a long time for a response, but she refused to talk more. Owen threw some wood on the fire, returned to his chair, pondered his girlfriend. He added suicide to the list of topics Abby didn't like to discuss.

* * *

><p>The next morning Owen was amazed at how many supplies Abby had moved to their campsite. She could certainly work like a horse when she wanted to. A few more nights of this and everything would be here.<p>

Owen discovered a Charlotte newspaper. He read about the development of their story in Brooklyn and Pittsburgh. Abby's kill in Pennsylvania had been linked to her. Their Chevy had been found. Owen realized it was not just the police he had to worry about. Reporters were uncovering more information than the FBI. The paper quoted so many people Owen had met in Brooklyn, some of whom he couldn't even recall. But everyone remembered him: the infamous "Blood Boy."

Abby had found some trail maps. She had even marked their current position. Owen climbed the other ridge adjacent to their campsite. He used a compass to compare their surroundings to the maps. It pleased him that Abby was scouting the area, even though he knew it would make her hungry faster.

Owen spent the afternoon looking through books. The outdoor guides from the camping store contained an incredible amount of helpful advice. Owen was glad he had stolen them. Most of the math and science texts were way over his head. He figured he could try Algebra, and maybe portions of Biology. Abby had grabbed a stack of novels: _Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, Tom Sawyer, Little House on the Prairie, Little Women, Anne of Green Gables_. Owen hadn't realized _Little House_ was a book. Actually, it was a whole bunch of books. He had heard of _Tom Sawyer_, but he had never read it.

He missed Lisa. He pulled her note from his pocket, studied the words. He was still angry at her. He had been assaulted dozens of times in juvie. It had never made him want to kill himself. And on Christmas, of all days. Owen was going to give her a present: enough money to buy a house, once she was old enough. He had never gotten the chance.

That evening he and Abby practiced throwing a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee. The toy frustrated Owen. It just didn't want to go straight. Abby giggled as he threw the Frisbee into tree after tree. At least she didn't seem to mind picking it up.

Owen wondered if Abby could use her super-strength when she wasn't vamped out. He tended to think of her as being in either girl-form or monster-form. But how accurate was that? When she flew wasn't she somewhere in-between? If she wanted to, could she throw the Frisbee like a vampire even though she was in girl-form?

They settled by the fire and Abby told a story. "They get shipwrecked on this island," she said. "There's a man with them at first, but he dies. It skips to them being teenagers. They're always naked. They run around naked. They swim naked. He never understands her. She gets mad at him."

"Don't they get cold?" Owen asked.

"It's a tropical island. It's always warm. They eat fish and bananas. She's, like, so clueless. She yells at him, 'You're always staring at my buppies!'"

"Buppies?"

"That's what she says."

Owen didn't understand what the big deal was. He stared at Abby's buppies all the time.

"She gets pregnant and they have no idea what's going on. They think she's getting fat. They feel her stomach move and don't realize it's a baby. And after the baby's born he asks her, 'Why did you have a baby?'"

"You like this movie?" Owen inquired.

"She's never sunburned," Abby lamented. "Her nails are manicured. Her hair is always positioned just right so you can't actually see her body. It's just sick how beautiful she is. I wish I could look like that."

"You're way prettier than Brooke Shields," Owen pronounced.

Abby smiled, but Owen felt like he had missed something. They were alone in the wilderness, just like in the movie. Did Abby want to run around naked? Did she want long hair?

"They don't have any books, do they?" Owen asked.

"No," Abby said.

"We've got books. We're on our own, but we can still learn. We don't have to be clueless."

Abby didn't have anything to say to this. Owen wondered how he could explain his revelation in juvie, the importance of becoming educated. If they were going to survive they had to find out what they didn't know.

"Did you ever go to school?" he asked.

"My mother taught me to read and write," she said. "I went to tutor for music. Betsy taught me to sew. John taught me to shoot. Sarah had me cook with her, but I was never very good at it. I did figure out how to embroider."

"No math or science?"

Abby shook her head. "Girls didn't learn that."

Owen's heart sank. He had hoped Abby could help him. "You're good with puzzles. I bet you would be good at math." Abby didn't seem interested in this idea. "What about Romeo and Juliet?"

Her face brightened. "I like stories. I don't read as much since talking movies came out."

"You remember going to a tutor. Do you remember where you came from? Where were you born?"

"It was a long time ago, Owen."

"Do you remember your last name?"

"My last name's Wheeler," Abby declared promptly. "I have laid my fortunes at thy feet, and I will follow thee, my lord, throughout the world."

Pride surged through Owen's heart. He pulled Abby from her seat, wrapped his arms around her waist, and kissed her. She responded with a desperate joy.

As they made out Owen remembered the time in his apartment when he stopped Abby's bleeding. "You can come in," he said, and he hugged Abby tight. "What if I didn't say anything? Would you have kept bleeding? Would you have died?" Abby replied with such pure contentment in her voice, "I knew you wouldn't let me." Kissing Abby felt just like that night: a perfect moment. Owen wanted it to last forever.

* * *

><p>If Owen let himself he'd do nothing but survive. The longer they stayed here the farther he had to walk to gather firewood. And he spent so much time heating water. Hot water for cooking, for laundry, for bathing. Even if he boiled both pots and added it quickly to the shower bag, it still only created a lukewarm spray. Certainly not enough to make him forget that he was standing wet and naked on a mountain in winter.<p>

Staying in a hotel was better. Except it wasn't. Fresh air invigorated; the ghetto stink oppressed. Owen had broken in his boots. His blisters had turned to calluses. He was hiking up and down a valley instead of making deals with pimps. He was adjusting to sleeping on hard ground instead of figuring out new ways to rob people. He felt alive. He felt free.

In Brooklyn Owen had slept from four until noon. Here he always got up while it was still dark. It gave him and Abby less time together, but he was determined to guard her. Twice he had witnessed people break in on her during the day. She was vulnerable at that time. She needed protection.

Owen's altered sleep schedule gave Abby a lot of free time. He wondered what she did with it. The newspapers she gathered showed that she covered a lot of territory: Chattanooga, Knoxville, Ashville, Greenville, Atlanta. But she had to do more than just fly around. Owen felt guilty sleeping when she was awake. He didn't know what to do about it, though. At least Abby never complained.

In the evening Owen showed Abby the spot where he would set out fresh clothes for her. He kissed her goodbye and watched her fly south. He wished she could get there and back in a single night, but that was impossible if they wanted to mislead people into thinking they were in Georgia. Owen had no choice but to spend the next forty hours alone.

The next morning Owen scanned through the stations in the vain hope that a rock signal had magically extended into the Unicoi Mountains. He turned off the radio. It was just as well. He had homework to do. He ploughed through two lessons in his Algebra text.

As the day wore on Owen found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. He missed Abby. He missed feeling her presence. It was such a strange power she had, this ability to be felt. Owen wondered if he was addicted to her. The junkies in Coney needed heroin. Owen needed Abby. The longer he went without his fix the more frantic he got.

He tried switching to Biology. Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, Species. Abby was obviously part of the animal kingdom. But was she a mammal? She had hair and breasts. But she couldn't be called warm-blooded. She never got warm, no matter how long Owen held her. He assumed she couldn't give birth to live young. They had never discussed the matter, though. Owen wondered how he could ask.

He wished he had his law books. They were so much more interesting than this stuff. Owen thought about his parents. He hadn't seen them since juvie. He wanted to talk to his mom, but there was no way he was going to try and contact her. She would have to follow his exploits in the paper, same as everybody else.

He missed Lisa. He missed his friends in juvie. Hopefully things had improved at Bernalillo since Owen had escaped. Hopefully some of his friends had gotten out. He imagined Tim and Village and Bank and George no longer trapped, but free to run around New Mexico and be children again. He wished he could sit down with them in some restaurant and tell Abby stories. He had so many more to tell!

Did being with Abby mean not having friends? Did Abby want friends, or just Owen? He didn't think Lisa and Abby had ever met. For some reason he had never felt comfortable introducing them to each other. He tried to imagine the two of them hanging out on the street. It was hard to picture.

Owen loved Abby. He wanted to be with her. Was it wrong to want to spend time with other people, also? His parents had friends. Their relationship, however, was a disaster. It couldn't help him figure out how to have a relationship of his own.

He observed the trees and the pale light filtering through the canopy. He listened to the stream bubble. He smelled the pine and the fire. The forest was quiet, peaceful, calm. But also lonely. He didn't think he wanted to be lonely.

* * *

><p>This was Owen's favorite time: after dinner, settled in his chair, sitting by the fire with Abby at his side. He loved how she simply stared at him and smiled. It was all the more remarkable given that she hadn't eaten for eight days. His mere presence could make even Hungry Abby happy. He was powerful!<p>

Yet also powerless. He and Abby had _so_ much fun together. Her mood was definitely better than in Brooklyn. Yet no matter how good a time they had, no matter how happy she became, before long the same neediness resurfaced. Owen realized that his expectations had not changed: he still wanted to make a difference in Abby's life. He wanted her to improve, and he wanted to be the _reason_ she improved. They had tried Owen's way in New York, and it hadn't worked. But was Abby's way working any better?

She had hunted four times. The newspapers told Owen where. The marks he had placed on his map formed a nice ring around Chattahoochee. The whole state of Georgia was searching for Abby. The state of North Carolina was not. At the very least they were avoiding capture. And that, Owen reminded himself, was the primary objective.

Abby started reading aloud:

She came at once upon a handsomely engraved and colored frontispiece – a human figure, stark naked. At that moment a shadow fell on the page and Tom Sawyer stepped in at the door and caught a glimpse of the picture. Becky snatched at the book to close it, and had the hard luck to tear the pictured page half down the middle. She thrust the volume into the desk, turned the key, and burst out crying with shame and vexation.

Abby stopped. Owen waited, then encouraged her to continue. She recommenced reading, but it was several paragraphs before Owen stopped looking at her and started focusing on the text:

The next girl was Becky Thatcher. Tom was trembling from head to foot with excitement and a sense of the hopelessness of the situation. "Rebecca Thatcher" [Tom glanced at her face – it was white with terror] – "did you tear – no, look me in the face" [her hands rose in appeal] – "did you tear this book?" A thought shot like lightning through Tom's brain. He sprang to his feet and shouted – "I done it!" The school stared in perplexity at this incredible folly. Tom stood a moment, to gather his dismembered faculties; and when he stepped forward to go to his punishment, the surprise, the gratitude, the adoration that shone upon him out of poor Becky's eyes seemed pay enough for a hundred floggings.

Abby faded again. Owen sighed. He was getting interested in the novel, but only Happy Abby could concentrate while reading out loud. Owen was going to have to wait until she had fed again to hear more of the story. He told Abby to close the book.

"We met a year ago this week," Owen observed. "I can't calculate the exact date, but it was near the end of February. I wish I could get you a present," he added, gesturing at the forest. "But there aren't any gift shops."

"You're the gift I want," Abby replied.

Owen smiled. "You seem happier here than in Brooklyn," he noted.

Abby pursed her lips. "I'd rather kill others than kill you."

This response surprised Owen, as it broached one of Abby's taboos. He wondered if he could attempt the serious discussion he had been planning. Deep topics were normally a mistake with Hungry Abby, but Owen didn't think he had ever heard her speak the word "kill."

"My math book has all these future career blurbs," Owen said. "You know, what you can do if you learn math. Accountant, engineer, computer programmer. It all sounds really boring. But the general idea is the whole what-do-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up thing.

"It's getting me thinking about the future," Owen continued. "These mountains are working out well enough for now, but this is hardly a long-term solution. We need a plan for the future. I think we should talk about our dreams. What are our goals going to be? What do we want to accomplish?"

Abby reacted as Owen had feared: she visibly curled up into herself. He knew he ought to stop. But now that he had finally started this conversation, Owen really wanted to say what he had to say. Besides, it was their anniversary. What better time to talk about the future?

"If I understand the vision you showed me, the man turned you into a vampire by biting you. I think that means you could turn other people into vampires if you bit them but didn't kill them. That means you could turn _me_ into a vampire."

Abby stared into the fire, her eyes wide. She said nothing.

"That's something to consider if we're talking about the future. If I was a vampire we could live together forever. It would answer the question of what I want to be when I grow up. I would be a vampire. I'm not sure it's something I want, but what I really wanted to ask you is this: is it something _you_ want?"

Abby stood from her chair and lifted Owen to his feet, drawing him to herself. She started kissing him. She unbuttoned his shirt. She took her own shirt off. Then she tried to remove more clothing. Owen stopped her by taking her hands and kissing them. He led her to his tent, had her lay down beside him, and snuggled with her until they fell asleep.

The next morning Owen stumbled outside and threw two days worth of fuel on the fire. He turned on country music. He cleaned his shotgun. He made himself an extra-big breakfast, gargled with coffee, threw stones in the creek, and tried to figure out what the hell had happened.

He and Abby often slept in the same tent, but Owen had never done more than kiss Abby. Making out was like a game. It was fun. Last night wasn't fun. Abby had been so serious. She looked like a prostitute doing something because she had to, because she'd been paid. When Owen had stopped her she had clearly looked relieved. She had been content to go to sleep.

Had he forced Abby? Made her feel like she had to do something she didn't really want to do? How had she gone from "Do you want me to be a vampire?" to "OK, I'll sleep with you if I have to?" It made no sense.

* * *

><p><em>No wonder Thomas called her a f-ing bitch.<em>

Owen read and reread the article in the Asheville Citizen-Times. It explained in brutal detail how Abby had killed and fed upon a Cherokee Indian in Swain County, North Carolina. He pulled out his map and plotted her latest victim. Fifty miles to the northeast lay a reservation called the Qualla Boundary. That was where Abby had struck.

He charged about the campsite, furious. He couldn't believe what Abby had done. It wasn't like he was asking her not to kill people. He wasn't even asking her to hide the bodies. He just wanted her to hunt _in a certain area_. She couldn't even do that.

The worst of his anger had passed by the time Abby got up, but he was still in no mood to talk. He ate dinner in silence, refusing to look at her. She sat at his side, waiting.

"You prefer Indians," Owen finally concluded. Not a question. A statement.

"Yes," Abby said.

_Don't ask for an explanation,_ he urged himself. _Just accept it and move on._ "Can you go back to the reservation?" Owen asked. "Now that you've started hunting there, can you keep hunting there?"

Abby nodded. "Absolutely."

Owen rubbed his face. "The Qualla Boundary is far away. If you establish a new pattern, with any luck they'll conclude we've moved to Smoky Mountain National Park." There was no getting around the painful truth, however: Abby had drawn the pursuit into North Carolina.

He considered leaving. They could hike across the Tennessee border into Cherokee National Forest, steal a car, and head west. He didn't know what was more dangerous, driving or staying in one place. It was so frustrating not knowing what to do. Either decision could be wrong. It was enough to drive a man crazy.

"This gets us back to our core issue," Owen explained, not caring if Abby wanted to hear it or not. "We need a way of obtaining blood that does not involve killing people. Murderless blood. Buying it is out, at least for the time being. We have to come up with something else.

"We could rob people at gunpoint, force them to give blood. We'd have to hold up a lot of people, though. From a hiding standpoint that would be even worse than killing. What we need is a method that will _never_ come to the police's attention. A way to get blood so that even the people we're getting it from don't know that we're getting it."

Owen hoped Abby would chime in, but she said nothing. "Let's find six drunks passed out on the side of the road," he said, his voice bitter. "We'll draw two pints each, and they'll be none the wiser. Or better yet, drug an entire fraternity and steal a pint from everybody. Maybe I could invent a transporter and beam blood out of people. I'll find suicidal people who don't want their blood. I'll buy forty slaves and force them to donate. I'll make a tribe of savages worship you. They'll offer you their blood."

He could see how badly he was upsetting her, but he couldn't stop. "Why are you always so sad?" he demanded. "We have fun together. I make you happy. Why isn't it enough? Why isn't it ever enough?"

Abby gazed into the fire, her expression distant and miserable. It was painful how much she looked like Lisa. The brokenness of broken people overwhelmed Owen. What was he supposed to do? No matter how much he held Abby, played with her, made her smile, he couldn't heal her. She was like a cup with a hole in it. He could pour himself in forever. The cup would never be full.

* * *

><p>That week they backpacked to the Tennessee border. It was rough going, despite Abby having scouted the route in advance. Owen kept coughing. But he refused to turn around or have Abby carry him. They would have to leave North Carolina soon. He wanted to be prepared.<p>

They came to a cave that Abby had claimed for herself. Frozen pieces of dead bear lay about twenty yards from the entrance. Owen considered the beast's condition, realized he wasn't the only person dealing with anger issues. The bear never stood a chance.

Owen blew his nose into a leaf. He took more cold medicine and collected sticks. Abby helped. The weather in this place was so unpredictable. One day would get up to 70 degrees; another night it would plummet to zero. Owen couldn't hold a match steady enough to strike it. Abby tried to start the fire, but the wind kept putting it out.

"I don't want you to take this the wrong way," Owen said, his teeth chattering. "And if the question offends you, please tell me. When you killed that bear, did you try to feed on it?"

Abby began building a windbreak. "I've tried every animal," she said. "I've tried dead people, too. Nothing works."

The wind grew in intensity. They gave up and retreated into the cave. Abby slipped Owen into both sleeping bags. He started moaning and bringing up nasty chunks of phlegm. Abby searched the first aide kit. "Band-Aids and aspirin," she swore.

She got down on the rock next to Owen, placed her hand on his face. "Your fever is too high," she said. "I'm going to have to get you real medicine. You need to be by a fire. If the wind dies down go outside and build one. Otherwise stay in the sleeping bags. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Owen watched her disappear through the cave entrance. He shivered uncontrollably, dreaming of hot showers and hot baths and hot tubs. The wind blew harder. In his misery Owen realized that if Abby didn't come back he could die in this mountain pass. He was a weak, useless burden.

Abby never got sick. If she changed him into a vampire, then he wouldn't get sick, either. Why were they hiking at all? Wasn't it because Owen couldn't fly? If they were both vampires everything would be so much easier. No need to stay near a stash of food. No need for fire. No need for warmth.

Abby returned before dawn carrying a sack of items. She tore open a hypodermic, filled it with liquid, and injected it into Owen's arm. She gave him pills and made him swallow them with whiskey. The liquor burned his throat. Abby made him drink more of it anyway. She switched to a container of fresh orange juice and forced Owen to consume it all. He crawled outside to urinate.

When he reentered the cave he discovered Abby ripping open dozens of square plastic packages. She shoved the contents into Owen's sleeping bag. Owen got back in his bag, realized the mystery objects were hand warmers. He thanked Abby and drifted off.

He awoke in the afternoon, sweat-soaked and ravenous. He guessed Abby was huddled in the back of the cave, although he couldn't actually see her. He crept outside, built a fire, and started heating a can of stew. He searched for the medicine Abby had given him. Rocephin (Ceftriaxone) the vial said. The words meant nothing to him. He returned to the fire.

What were the advantages and disadvantages of becoming a vampire? Living in the wild was dangerous. There would always be injuries or illnesses requiring medical attention. He could only imagine where Abby had gone last night, what she had done. And all because Owen was weak.

It wasn't Abby who kept them in one place for months at a time. It was Owen and his need for their giant pile of supplies. If Owen was a vampire they could travel light. Every kill could be in another state. There'd be no pattern for the police to track.

If he was a vampire he wouldn't be able to break into houses. He wouldn't be able to guard Abby during the day. But how important was all that, really? Abby had survived for five months on her own. And survival was what it came down to: if Owen was a vampire, they would both have a better chance at survival.

But Owen imagined more. If he became a vampire it would give him time, and time was what Abby needed. Healing her wounds was no short-term project. It could take decades, maybe even centuries, to make her better. Being a vampire would give him that time. He could see a day five hundred years from now when Abby's cup was finally full. And all because of Owen.

He didn't want to kill people, though. They would really have to find a murderless source of blood. Maybe that's what Abby needed. A harmless way of feeding _and_ Owen as a vampire. The two together might work where either alone would fail.

In the evening Owen started feeling worse again. He returned to his sleeping bag. Abby made him take more pills and drink more whiskey. She snuggled next to him, her body stretched out on the cold, bare rock.

"The man who changed you into a vampire," Owen asked. "Who was he?"

"My uncle," Abby answered.

"Do you know what happened to him?"

"No."

"So he could still be alive." Owen waited for a response, but Abby said nothing. "Have you ever turned anyone into a vampire?" he pressed.

Abby rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

"If I was so sick that no medicine could help me, would you change me? I have to think you'd do it then. You wouldn't let me die, would you?"

Abby sat up. Owen sat up with her. She grasped Owen's chin and his vision changed. He saw Abby lying in a dark room. A woman entered. "Good morning, Abigail," the woman said. The next instant her tone changed. "Abigail, are you alright? What happened to you?"

The awful memory from last night occupied a corner of Abby's mind, but it was distant, unimportant. What mattered was the driving hunger in her belly. She could hear the woman's heart beating. The sound fascinated Abby. The woman leaned over to examine her shoulder.

Abby tore the woman's chest open and fed on her heart. When there was no more blood to be had, she ripped limbs off and sucked them dry. Abby brooded, thirsty and dazed. At some point she came to herself. She was shocked and horrified and hopelessly confused. How had she done it? _Why_ had she done it? She dropped a leg and started screaming. Owen screamed with her: "Mommy!"

Owen shoved Abby's hand aside and scooted away from her, his breathing ragged. She waited, saying nothing, eyes vacant and doomed. Owen understood why. He hadn't just seen what Abby had done. He had felt everything she had felt. He had felt what she was still feeling. Hate consumed her, and all of it directed at herself. What could Owen do – what could he _ever_ do – to overcome this much guilt and self-loathing?

The word "sad" was inadequate. Abby was way beyond sad. A word didn't exist for what Abby was feeling. Bewilderment, shame, anguish, desolation, despair. Nothing fit. Abby was enduring an inhuman level of suffering. Only a non-human word could possibly describe it.

Owen had never understood the truly monstrous nature of the monster. He understood it now. It wasn't a dangerous animal that needed to be caged. It was a hideous fiend that needed to be destroyed. It was a devil, wicked, ruthless, and cruel. He understood why people hunted it, why they wanted to kill it. It was evil. It was a vampire.

But Abby wasn't evil. Owen wanted to hug her, but what good would it do? He wrapped his arms around her anyway. He stroked her back and reassured her over and over again: "I love you, Abby. I love you so much." It didn't matter. Abby was catatonic. She couldn't hear him.

* * *

><p>Two nights later they headed home. Owen, still recovering from his illness, was forced to let Abby carry him much of the way. They made it to their valley on the morning of Saturday, March 3. Owen led them along the creek. He was eager to build a fire.<p>

Abby halted. Owen turned in time to see her drop her pack and take to the air. He pulled his shotgun and flashlight and examined his surroundings. He took twenty steps toward the campsite and discovered why Abby had fled. Standing by the fire pit, M16 in hand, was Agent Alvirez.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Secret Society**

Alvirez kept his rifle pointed at Owen's feet. The boy held his position for a long time. The agent waited. Eventually Owen advanced, shotgun aimed downward.

"Your girlfriend tends to leave you in the lurch," Alvirez observed.

"She doesn't deal well with surprises," Owen replied.

"Like an animal."

"Like an animal," Owen agreed.

Alvirez nodded, impressed. Owen didn't just know that Abby spooked easily. He knew it and accepted it.

"I liked your collection of books," Alvirez noted. "The only brothel in New York with its own library."

"The ones in juvie were better," Owen said, taking another step forward.

Alvirez tried to get a feel for Owen. The boy had certainly grown, though he was still small for his age. He had managed to fill out a bit. Short haircut, hiking boots, backpack – he looked nothing like the pictures being circulated in the press. Which was all to the good.

"You think she'll be back tonight?" Alvirez asked.

"I'm guessing not," Owen answered. "It's too close to sunrise."

"Excellent. That gives us time to talk."

"What makes you think I _want_ to talk to you?"

The absence of light frustrated Alvirez. He really needed to observe Owen's eyes and facial expressions. The darkness left him with nothing but the posture of Owen's body and the tone of his voice.

"Five reasons you owe me a conversation," Alvirez explained. "First, I didn't kill you on the roof when I had the chance. Second, after you flew away I told everyone you were hiding in the building. That gave you time to escape. Third, no one but me knows you're here. Fourth, I didn't shoot Abby in the head just now. Fifth, I brought your girlfriend a meal." He kicked the lump at his feet.

"That's a person?" Owen asked.

"Don't feel sorry for him. Child molester fresh out of prison. They'll think he's skipping parole. Abby can eat him, and then you can learn how hard it is to cremate a body."

Owen took some time to process. "Why are you here?" he finally asked.

"Because I'm interested in Abby. They say there's nothing new under the sun. I disagree. Abby's new. I want to study her."

"Too bad," Owen said. "All you get to study is me and my 12-gauge."

"I'm here to make you an offer," Alvirez announced. "I work in Washington now. I've set up a house in Maryland for you. I've arranged for Abby to receive a steady supply of food. In exchange you deliver regular samples of Abby's blood, and you let me get to know her."

"You want to keep us prisoner in a house?"

"I didn't say prisoner. What I'm offering is illegal. You would live under false identities. You would be free to come and go as you pleased. You could try the arrangement, decide you hate it, and go back to your wonderful life as fugitives."

Owen moved closer. "Why would you do that?" he asked, his voice suspicious.

"You think I'm a police officer, Owen? A lawman? I'm really just a psychologist with a badge. I figure people out. It's what I do. Those doctors in Maryland, they want to study Abby's blood. But me, Owen, I want to study Abby. I want to build a psychological profile of her. I want to understand her mind."

"That doesn't make any sense," the boy protested.

"Every man wants something," Alvirez mused. "Haven't you figured that out by now? Some men seek money, power, sex, fame. There's a select few, however, that crave only what's hidden. We lust after knowledge. We want to discover new things. That is Abby's attraction: the promise of discovery."

"This is stupid," Owen said. "You expect us to trust you?"

"I'm breaking the law. You really need to think through the implications of that. Talking to you is illegal. Concealing your location is illegal. Serving as an accomplice in this loser's murder is illegal. I've turned to the dark side, Owen. The FBI is just my day job. What I'm doing here I'm doing for me.

"But of course I don't expect you to trust me. I'm just putting the offer on the table. My guess is you'll need another two or three years on the run before you'll really consider it."

"Where would we live?" Owen asked.

"In Chevy Chase. That's a suburb of Washington, D.C. It's close to the hospital where I'll be getting Abby's blood."

"Hospital blood doesn't work."

"That's not what I mean," Alvirez clarified. "Fresh blood can be collected from patients, students, employees. People will think it's for research. I can gather it and drive it to Abby within the time limit you used in Brooklyn. Assuming an hour is really her max."

"I think it is," Owen said. "I know it has to be fresh."

"Well fresh blood is what I can get you, and as much as you want. You were trying to do eight pints a week at the end there. I can get you at least twelve pints a week. More if you want."

"I don't know," Owen objected. "It sounds too easy."

"It won't be easy," Alvirez said. "I'll be providing you with blood, security, and reintegration into society. In exchange I expect to be paid. Samples for the researchers. Information about Abby for me. You'll have to talk to me about Abby, and you'll have to talk to me about Abby a lot. If you think that's going to be easy, we haven't spent enough time together."

Alvirez could tell the boy was taking him seriously. This confused the agent. Owen should be ignoring him, dismissing him, telling him to get lost. Alvirez filed his puzzlement aside, pressed his advantage.

"You had a good idea in Brooklyn," he continued. "But how long do you really think it would've lasted? Even if the Russians hadn't kicked you out of Brighton, it was only a matter of time before some reporter or social worker started asking questions. And Lisa might have kept her own counsel, but Carlos was a blabbermouth. You need a long-term solution. Something that gets you off the grid for real. That's what I'm offering."

"I don't understand how you could get blood," Owen mused. "It's not as easy as you make it sound."

"These NIH guys study blood. It's what they do. They're drawing blood from people all the time. People expect them to draw blood."

"They'll tell."

"They won't know where the blood is going. And they won't know where Abby's samples are coming from, either. At least not at first. A few will be let in on the secret eventually, I suppose. But their numbers will be strictly controlled."

"We're doing OK on our own," Owen muttered, but Alvirez could hear the doubt in his voice.

"Do you know how I survive in this world, Owen? I have friends. It's amazing what happens when you save a man's life. He becomes willing to do anything for you. And not just him, but his father, too. Washington's a very good town to have friends. You need a friend, Owen. Someone willing to help you. Someone _able_ to help you. Someone who won't kill himself when he gets the holiday blues."

Owen squeezed his 12-gauge. "You're not the only one with a gun," he threatened.

"What did your little Bronx whore ever do for you? She went for walks on the beach? She played Parcheesi? I can actually do for you, Owen. What better person to hide you than the very agent tasked with your discovery?

"And there's something you've got to understand," Alvirez added. "You're going to get caught. You've no idea of the resources being devoted, the technology that's starting to be utilized. It's like something out of Star Wars, Owen. You're going to get arrested, and convicted, and stuck in some hole that an entire battalion of Abby's couldn't break you out of."

Alvirez noticed the sky beginning to brighten. He slung his M16 over his shoulder. "I'll be back in seven days," he said. "I don't expect to find you when I return. If you _are_ here we can head to Maryland at once. If not, think about my offer while Abby's body count piles up. Think about it next time you get sick and need a doctor. I'm the only friend you've got, Owen. Sooner or later you're going to have to realize that." He began walking away.

Owen pursued him. "She _must_ get blood in a way that does not involve people dying," the boy insisted.

"That's the plan," Alvirez said

"I want a tutor," Owen added.

"A tutor?"

"A teacher. I want to keep up with school."

"I can work that out, no problem."

"You can make it all sound as great as you like," Owen said. "You'll never convince Abby."

"Will she follow you? Will she do what you say?"

Owen considered this. "Yes," he decided.

"Then I don't have to."

* * *

><p>Alvirez merged onto the Capital Beltway and headed north. It was Monday evening, March 12. Owen had fallen asleep in the passenger seat. The agent assumed Abby was awake in the rear of the van, but she refused to talk to him or even look at him. That was OK. Her very reticence was a useful datum. And right now gathering data was what this was all about.<p>

He couldn't believe his good fortune at having Abby inside his vehicle. After so many months searching, the girl was his at last. How desperately he wanted to pick her brain! Unfortunately Abby had no reason to interact with him. For the time being Alvirez was going to have to settle for indirect learning.

Of what Owen had told him so far, three things especially interested Alvirez. The first was the boy's distinction between Abby and Monster. Owen even used a special word for the transformation, saying that Abby "vamped." This naturally raised the question of whether or not the girl was schizophrenic. Even more tantalizing, did Abby suffer from that rarest of jewels, a genuinely dissociative personality? Alvirez could end up constructing _two_ profiles!

The second matter of note was Owen's assertion that Abby had been born in the 1700's. Alvirez didn't really believe this, despite admitting Abby looked no older than when he had seen her in the fall. But if it _were_ true…the implications! What a unique personality she would present: a two hundred year old twelve-year-old. And the generational carnage she would have wrecked! Twenty-five kills a year times two hundred meant what? That Abby had murdered at least five thousand people? The resultant ruination of her psyche was scarcely conceivable.

The third piece of information that fascinated Alvirez was the claim that Abby could not enter a private residence unless invited in. What sort of disease, genetic or otherwise, could possibly account for such a "symptom?" He figured it was psychosomatic. Abby was so convinced that she would bleed upon entering a home uninvited, that when she entered uninvited she actually _did_ bleed. The agent thought of Christ bleeding in Gethsemane, was thrilled at the prospect of discovering a related phenomenon.

A delicious stew of ailments, conditions, and issues, all simmering in a beautiful, deadly crock pot. Alvirez could understand why Owen had devoted himself to Abby, why her previous caretaker had done the same. And Alvirez had gone rogue for her. The potential negative outcome of his choice didn't bother him, though. As long as Abby clicked – as long as he experienced the magic moment when she suddenly made sense – Alvirez could depart the world in peace.

He crossed the Potomac, took the exit for Bethesda. "Wake up," he said to Owen, shaking the boy's shoulder and pointing out the window. "That's the National Institutes of Health. The blood Abby lost in Colorodo has enabled me to get two senior researchers on board, a hematologist and an infectious disease specialist. The latter won't help if Abby's condition is genetic, but from what you've said that doesn't sound like the case."

Within five minutes they were pulling into a suburban driveway. "You have to tell Abby she can come in," Owen insisted.

"This is your home," Alvirez said. "I've rented it for you."

"Say it anyway."

"You can come in," the agent projected into the back seat. He activated the garage, pulled inside, and shut the door. He did not get out of the car. "This is your house," he maintained. "Take your stuff inside and settle in. I'll bring Abby's lunch over about 12:30."

"She can't eat during the day," Owen said.

"I'm afraid she'll have to, at least for now. Once the Society has enough members, they can gather in the evenings to donate blood. But for the time being it's students and patients."

"Waking her while the sun is up is dangerous."

"I'll need you to deliver the first samples at the same time," Alvirez continued, dismissing Owen's concern. "You'll find the necessary supplies inside. From what I hear you know how to do it. Five vials minimum, please." The kids unloaded the vehicle. Alvirez said goodnight, drove to his home in the adjacent neighborhood, and went to bed.

The next day he made it to their house a little before one o'clock in the afternoon, half wondering if Owen and Abby would even be there. He pulled into the garage and entered the kitchen. He delivered to Owen twelve bags of blood, then ordered a pizza.

Fifty minutes later the boy reappeared. "You've no idea how hard it was to get these," Owen complained, passing a small bag to Alvirez. "I don't think the monster likes losing blood."

Alvirez opened the pizza box and started eating a slice. "I hope to make it here most afternoons," he said. "My contact information's on the wall. Obviously you should only use it in an extreme emergency. You're free to do what you want. Just remember I'm not the only person looking for you. Until you've got your disguises and false identities in place, you're probably better off staying put. Catch up on your sleep. Watch some TV. Make a list of what you need." He turned to leave.

"Why are doing this?" Owen demanded.

"Because Abby is a mystery," Alvirez reflected. "I've proven I can catch her. So what? Lots of people can catch bad guys. But understand her? Comprehend her? How many men do you think even have the potential, the capacity, to figure her out? I have to try. Why are _you_ doing this?"

"Why do you think?"

"I'd say you're tired of running, except you're not. I'd say Abby eating people makes you feel guilty, but I think you only feel guilty when you actually participate in the kill. Maybe you're just afraid of going back to jail." But Alvirez could tell from the boy's reaction that this wasn't true, either.

"You want to understand Abby," Owen challenged. "You don't even understand me."

Alvirez got in his car and drove to FBI Headquarters, annoyed. The little twerp was right.

* * *

><p>The next day he took Owen to a Chevy Chase mansion and began showing him around. "The Society will be headquartered here," Alvirez explained. "You see how close it is to your house. When members donate blood I'll be able to get it to you quickly."<p>

Owen wandered from room to room. "How do you pay for this?" he asked.

"You can't break just one law," Alvirez answered.

He led Owen into the basement, pointed out the many boxes stuffed into corners. "Research equipment. This level will become the lab. They'll have to do their serious work here. It _is_ a secret project, after all."

"Just how many people are you talking about?" Owen inquired, his voice concerned.

"Let's go to my office." They went back upstairs. Alvirez unlocked a heavy metal door, invited Owen to sit down, and produced a diagram from his desk drawer.

"Concentric circles," the agent explained. "People in the outermost ring get access to research results, but they don't know where the data come from. Next circle gets to examine Abby's blood. Third group is allowed to come to this building and work in the lab. Men in the fourth circle are told that the specimens come from the vampire girl. Fifth circle members gain access to Abby's file, including a list of her symptoms and powers. Sixth circle gets to meet with you. The innermost is the most restrictive, of course: people who get to talk to Abby herself."

Alvirez gave Owen a minute to study the figure. "Obviously you're the only person in the middle. I'm talking to you right now, which puts me in the sixth circle. Currently no one else is past the second. Key men will go deeper as the project develops."

"What makes you think they're going to keep it secret?"

"Remember what I told you. Scientists crave knowledge. Their desire to be let further in will persuade them to keep their mouths shut. Plus they'll feel privileged, elite. They won't want to mess it up."

Owen seemed unconvinced.

"Granted," Alvirez admitted, "there's certainly the risk that someone spills the beans. But remember that involvement in this scheme is illegal. Every participant will know that joining the Society means breaking the law. Breaching the secret would get a man into legal trouble and ruin his career. Then there's me, of course. I'll always be here to enforce the silence."

"You can't hurt anyone," Owen demanded. "If a single person gets killed, we're out of here."

"Don't worry," Alvirez assured him. "I know all the best ways for manipulating people. None of them involve violence."

Owen shook his head. "Abby thinks it's stupid, trusting you. She's probably right. A couple of weeks ago I saw a bear that got on Abby's bad side. You _do_ know the same thing's going to happen to you if you screw us over."

"Well, _I_ certainly wouldn't trust me," the agent allowed.

"Abby doesn't sense danger from you. That's the only reason I was able to get her to come. I'm sure you're up to something, though."

"Of course I am. I'm going to examine your girlfriend until you get sick of it. Then I'm going to examine her some more. Just be glad I didn't put any hidden cameras in your house. I could've gone either way on that one."

"You're sick," the boy declared.

"No," Alvirez corrected. "I'm obsessed."

* * *

><p>Alvirez returned a week later, bearing blood plus the name of a possible tutor. "Do you want Abby to study with you?" he asked.<p>

"I hadn't thought about it," Owen admitted. "I don't think she'd be willing to sit with a teacher."

"Why not? You said she's smart."

"She doesn't like being around people. That's not the right way of saying it, though. She has no problem going to the movies. I guess she doesn't like talking to people."

"Except you."

Owen frowned. "Well, I suppose it depends. When she's hungry she doesn't like talking, period. But even when she's happy it depends on the topic."

"Aren't all people that way?" Alvirez suggested.

"Guess I never thought about it. Are there things Abby wishes _I_ would talk about?"

The notion seemed to disturb Owen. Alvirez grabbed a soda from the fridge and settled into a seat at the kitchen table. "Tell me an Abby story," he said. The agent listened patiently as Owen marched through the disastrous attempt at giving his girlfriend a "snack."

"Why do you have me keep telling the same stories?" Owen asked. "This has to be, like, the fifth time I've told this one."

"It's an old interview technique," the agent explained. "You have a person repeat the same story over and over again. You listen for changes, inconsistencies. It's a good way of determining whether or not a person is lying."

"You think I'm lying?"

"You don't attempt direct lies," Alvirez observed. "You do conceal things, in particular thoughts and feelings about the events you're describing. That's normal, though, especially for a male. I wish you were just generally more talkative. But you are what you are."

"Abby doesn't talk much, either."

"From my perspective Abby doesn't talk at all. My knowledge of her is entirely mediated through you. It's frustrating, but there's nothing I can do about it. That's why I need you to tell me about her."

"I _have_ been telling you about her."

"You've been recounting events," Alvirez clarified. "And that's helpful, certainly. It enables me to build my list of questions. But to be satisfied I need a lot more than a timeline of her activities."

Alvirez got up and began pacing. "I'm moderately interested in her vampirism, as you describe it. I possess independent evidence supporting three traits you've listed: super-strength, an ability to heal rapidly, and an ability to fly. Everything else I've got nothing but your word to go on. She lives forever? Burns in the sun? Bleeds when someone doesn't let her in? Can't eat regular food? You understand my skepticism. I realize you _think_ you're telling the truth. But maybe you're just misinformed.

"I'm willing to assume it's all true and move on, though, because my real questions are more psychological than biological. You say Abby is afflicted with an assortment of phobias and compulsions. What else is there? Is she psychopathic? Schizophrenic? Fractured into multiple personalities? Does she love killing? Hate killing? Has she stopped feeling anything at all about killing? What was she like before she became a vampire? How much of that original Abby is left? Does the initial sexual assault dominate her, or is it just a drop in the bucket compared to everything that's happened since?

"Is Abby one person or two? Is she an adult trapped in a child's body, or is she mentally still twelve? Why doesn't she hide the bodies after she feeds? Why doesn't she change you into a vampire? What is it that drives her decision-making? What are her deepest motives and desires? These are the questions, Owen. It would be great if you could find the answers."

Owen's shoulders slumped. "I'll never understand her," he lamented.

"Girls are hard to figure out," Alvirez agreed. "Abby's a girl and a vampire. That's a tough combination."

"Nothing I do works," Owen complained.

"What do you mean?"

"I can't seem to make her better."

"You want to cure her?"

"No," Owen clarified. "I mean I want to help her feel better. She's so miserable. I'm trying to help her improve. It's hard to explain."

Alvirez thought about this. "That's why you bought blood," he concluded. "I thought you were trying to hide."

"We _were_ trying to hide," the boy acknowledged. "But that wasn't the main reason. I'm thinking it'll help Abby if she doesn't have to kill people anymore. That's why no one can die here. I'm really serious about that."

"Abby's not the only person with too much blood on her hands," Alvirez said. "I assure you, her food is coming from willing donors."

"Why should I believe _you_?" Owen challenged.

"Well, for starters I almost always tell the truth. Lying is a useful interrogation technique, and on rare occasions I use it. But the suspect has to be a really unique individual for me to stoop to a lie. In most cases speaking truth is how you get others to do the same. Then there's Vietnam, of course. I have no interest in hurting anyone."

"No one can get hurt," Owen echoed. "We have to give her that much, at least."

Alvirez decided he was going to have to radically reevaluate Owen. He had assumed the boy was driven by two motives: sex and survival. But if the child had some deeper plan in mind, a longing to have an actual redemptive effect in Abby's life, it made everything much more complicated.

It also provided opportunity. A young man hoping to do nothing more than get Abby in the sack would have no real desire to understand her. But if Owen wanted to help her, heal her, save her – those were the sorts of goals that required genuine insight into her character. Which of course was exactly what Alvirez wanted himself. At the end of the day, he and Owen might actually be pursuing the same thing. The question was how to use it.

_Owen wants to understand Abby. I want to understand Abby. I have the training and experience. Owen has the relationship._ The solution was simple. Alvirez would teach Owen how to figure Abby out. Owen would communicate his new insights to Alvirez. Everybody would win.

Such a project would take time. Owen would need to be instructed in logic, formal anthropology, psychological theory and pathology, basic neurology, psychotropic pharmacology, communication skills, marriage dynamics, personality types, hierarchy of needs, interrogation techniques, and stages of cognitive development. Alvirez was confident he could do it, though. He and Owen were both bright, after all. And they were highly motivated.

For the plan to work, however, there was one thing about Abby that Alvirez simply _had_ to know. And to obtain this vital piece of information, he would have no choice but to go straight to the source.

* * *

><p>The golf course lay quiet and damp at 2:00 AM. One moment Alvirez walked the green alone. The next instant he sensed Abby behind him. He turned to stare at her, wondering if she would simply eat him and put this whole grand experiment to an end. But she just stood there in the dim light, brooding, pensive, grasping his note. She wore a dark sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. Her legs and feet were bare below a thigh-length miniskirt.<p>

She took several steps toward the agent and lifted the note. "Owen would never leave me," she insisted.

"He's thinking about it," Alvirez countered. "You have to try and see things from his perspective. I'm definitely the better caretaker. I get you more than enough blood, and no one dies in the process. I keep you safe from the police. I give you a nice home in the suburbs. How can he possibly compete with all that? You don't need him anymore."

Her expression grew even more worried, but she said nothing. Alvirez shifted so what illumination there was reflected off Abby's eyes. She looked confused, uncertain – exactly what Alvirez wanted.

"What's Owen really supposed to think?" Alvirez asked. "You've had friends before him, maybe even other lovers. You got what you needed out of them. When they were used up you moved on to someone else." The agent could see that Abby didn't agree with this narrative. He shifted tactics.

"Or maybe you really did love them," he allowed. "They're still dead. And you're still here. What is there for Owen in all that? A life of slavery as your next caretaker? Can't _I_ be your slave as well as he? Why _should_ he stay with you?"

Abby starting wringing her hands. "I _do_ love him," she protested.

"Does he know that? You keep secrets from him. You won't really talk to him about your former caretakers. Not enough to help him, anyway. You refuse to discuss the details of your condition, even though he desperately craves this information. You won't explain why you don't hide the bodies, or why you won't turn him, or why you don't like to talk about serious things. Understand how frustrating that is for him: you won't talk about why you won't talk. It's enough to drive him crazy."

Abby's expression degenerated into vacant despair. Alvirez had seen the look before, of course. In Vietnam soldiers had called it the "thousand-yard-stare." The emptiness seemed utterly out of place on such a young, beautiful face. It made Alvirez' heart surge with compassion, but he shoved the emotion down. Now was not the time for mercy.

"You keep so many secrets," Alvirez said, "that he's starting to keep secrets of his own. The older boys in jail raped him dozens of times. He was eventually forced to kill one of them. In Brooklyn he became good friends with a girl named Lisa. She helped Owen sell jewelry and obtain blood. He rented a room for her in your hotel. She went for walks with him on the beach. She committed suicide on Christmas day. Her death is tearing him apart. When he's alone during the day, he thinks about her and misses her. He misses his friends from juvie, too. But he never tells you any of this, does he? He's learned from you that he shouldn't talk, that he can't talk. He buries his feelings and suffers in silence."

Abby gazed into the distance, shell-shocked.

"It makes sense that Owen would consider me better qualified," the agent continued. "In 1968 I dropped a one-five-five fire mission on an enemy village. Afterwards I patrolled through. There was this cluster of children, eight, ten – it was hard to tell, they were in so many pieces. Their mother lay among them, bleeding, screaming, begging to die. I shot her in the head.

"That's why I'm better qualified, you see. Maybe I haven't killed as many people as you have, but after the first two or three hundred they do start to blur together, now don't they? I understand the guilt and the horror, Abby. The images you can never erase from your mind. The numbness, the deadness, the hopelessness. Owen can sense it, Abby. He can sense I'm able to understand you in a way he never can."

"I want nothing to do with you," Abby protested.

"Maybe not," Alvirez granted. "But you're willing enough to eat my food and sleep in my house. You're willing enough to let me do your job for you. _I'm_ the one talking to Owen and listening to him. All you ever do is sleep in the bathtub."

The hurt in her eyes was just horrible. Alvirez didn't stop, though. "He wants to go to school so badly. Do you know that, Abby? Do you care? He guards you all day, every day. Do you really think he can keep that up? And even if he can, so what? What do you think it'll do to him if he spends the rest of his life alone in your living room?"

Alvirez closed on her. "Owen's becoming a man," he declared. "A man feels a need to protect his woman. But a man needs more than that. He needs to feel like a good provider. He needs a career and a calling and a sense of place. He needs a vision for the future. You won't even talk about the future. Here and now, that's all you care about. That might be fine when Owen's thirteen. He won't think it's so fine when he's twenty.

"And you already know this! You've seen people grow up. You know how they change. You understand where Owen's headed better than he understands it himself. And tragically, outrageously, appallingly, you have the power to do something about it. You can turn him into a vampire."

Abby was crying now. Alvirez pushed the dagger deeper. "I know you hate being a vampire. But here's what you have to ask yourself. If you changed Owen in these current circumstances, he could feed without killing anybody. I'd get him all the blood he needed. So if you changed him, and he never hurt a soul, and he got to be with you forever, would he be happy?"

Abby hung her chin and nodded.

"I think so, too," Alvirez agreed. "So here you are, with the power to make him happy. He knows you can do this for him. Yet you hold back. You refrain. What is he supposed to conclude? He cares about your happiness, but do you really care about his? Do you actually love him? Or are you just using him? And if all you're doing is using him, he might as well let me get used instead."

"I _do_ love him," she declared.

"Then prove it," Alvirez ordered. "Prove you're more than some selfish, self-centered, manipulative little brat. Give yourself up for him like he gives himself up for you. Commit yourself to making him happy."

The agent studied her as she processed this challenge. She looked trapped, helpless, hopeless, distressed. She glanced to both sides, buried her face in her hands, and fled.

Alvirez watched her go, wondering idly if her relationship with Owen would change in any significant way. Not that he really cared. The agent had discovered what he had set out to learn: when it came to communication, for Abigail Wheeler body language was everything.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Date Night**

Owen heard a knock on the kitchen door. "You're late," he complained as he received twelve bags of blood from Alvirez. He disappeared into Abby's bathroom and emerged a few minutes later, glad that the agent had acceded to gathering samples only after nightfall. It was hard enough trying to prick Abby with a needle without having to do it during the day.

"You were supposed to be here yesterday," Owen protested, joining Alvirez at the kitchen table.

"Eight days instead of seven," the agent demurred. "Does it really matter?"

"If she expects to eat and doesn't, she turns nasty. She expected to eat yesterday."

"The Society's proving a bit unwieldy," Alvirez said. "These doctors have a mind of their own, and they have to be the most amoral group of human beings I have ever met in my life. It makes them difficult to control."

"Are we going to have to leave?" Owen asked, concerned. He had no understanding of Alvirez' dealings with the NIH researchers.

"It's just another problem to solve," Alvirez assured him. "I'll figure it out."

Owen wasn't sure what to make of this. The agent had made a total of four blood deliveries since they'd come to Maryland. One delivery per week, always twelve units at a shot. The regular, frequent feedings had done wonders for Abby's mood swings. The return of Hungry Abby during the last twenty-four hours had been a most unpleasant experience. Not that she had really been hungry, of course. It was just that her expectations had been dashed.

"Your tutor says you're excelling," Alvirez noted, changing the subject. "She says if you keep up this pace you'll be through 8th grade by the end of June. That puts you on track for the fall. That means high school, Owen. I meant what I said. You can go if you want."

"I can't leave Abby during the day," Owen reminded him.

"Certainly the tutor can keep coming here," the agent granted. "You really need to think about it, though. This is the only chance you're ever going to have to go to high school. Use your new identity, Owen. Have a life."

"Abby is my life."

"Fine," Alvirez grumbled. "I suppose there's always night school. Just realize that maybe you don't have to give up as much as you think you do."

"Why do you say that like you actually care about me? What do you think I'm going to do? Let _you_ stay here and watch her during the day?"

"You know how much she means to me. I would never let anyone hurt her."

Owen shook his head. He hated Alvirez' obsession with Abby, hated himself for feeding it. The guy was such a creep. But he was a _smart_ creep. He possessed exactly the sort of knowledge and insight that Owen craved. It was almost enough to make him look forward to the man's visits.

"Have you been going out?" Alvirez asked.

"Folger Theatre last night," Owen answered. "Romancing the Stone the night before. Splash tonight. We always get dressed up like you say. Abby's getting pretty good with the makeup, I guess. I still think she looks better without it."

"It's a disguise, Owen. What difference does it make how she looks?"

"You never had a girlfriend, did you?"

"I had a wife, actually, and she's better off without me, believe me. Did you finish the book I assigned?"

Owen pulled a thin, hardback volume from a stack and plopped it on the table. "How to Win Friends and Influence People," Owen said. "Kind of a stupid name."

"It's an old joke," Alvirez replied. "The worst thing this book has going for it is its title. It's really about conversational skills. That's what I want you to take away from it. You talk to people about what _they're_ interested in, not just what you're interested in."

"Why should I talk about something I don't want to talk about?"

"Because that's what it means to be a good conversationalist. Because that's what it means to be a gentleman. Because that's what it means to be an adult. You find out what the _other_ person wants to talk about. And that's what you talk about. Tell me what Abby's interests are."

"Movies. Music. Old books, I suppose. Maybe guns and cars. I always want to talk about vampire stuff."

"But that's my point," Alvirez pressed. "Abby _doesn't_ want to talk about vampire stuff. What you should be asking yourself is what she _does_ want to talk about. Is there anything she's interested in that you're not?"

"She's always reading the newspaper."

"Have you ever tried discussing the news?"

"No."

"Alright, then. Easy assignment. Read the newspaper and talk to her about it on your date."

"It's boring," Owen protested.

"All the better. You're doing it because _Abby_ is interested in it. You're doing it to make conversation with her, to be a gentleman. She'll appreciate the effort."

"I don't understand the paper," Owen admitted.

"So let her explain. If she's really as into current events as you say, she can probably explain quite a bit."

The agent produced three additional texts and a manila folder thick with photocopies. "These materials concern the topic of non-verbal communication," he said. "That means all the ways people communicate other than actual words. In practice it's mainly a study of body language. I want you to read through this packet first, then the books."

Alvirez pulled out a sheet of paper that displayed various facial expressions and body postures. "It's said between sixty and ninety percent of what we communicate is actually transmitted through non-verbal means: a shift of the eyes, a repositioning of the arms, a change in the lilt of one's voice. You say more with your body than you say with your words. That means the key to understanding what a person is _really_ saying is understanding his body language.

"I want to train you in the interpretation of non-verbal communication. It's going to take a lot of time. I've been studying it for twenty years, and I'm still learning. But I'd like you to start practicing tonight. I want you to focus on two markers: arm movement, and the thousand-yard-stare."

Alvirez pointed at Owen. "The crossing of your arms indicates closure. You're closing yourself off, putting a barrier between you and me. It's a sign of resistance, even hostility. If your date crosses her arms it's a very bad sign. But if she uses her arms to gesture, to make a point, to emphasize what she's saying…" Alvirez motioned with his hands for effect. "It tells you she's locked in, engaged, relaxed. Hand motions are an indicator your date is enjoying herself. Watch what Abby does with her arms."

The agent opened his folder and set out ten pictures. "These subjects have all been through some sort of traumatic stress. Concentration camp survivors, shell-shocked veterans, individuals rescued from natural disasters. This look in their eyes is what I want you to learn. Soldiers call it the thousand-yard-stare. The technical phrase is absence of affect. You see this expression and you know the person has been through hell. These are people who need serious help. These are people who kill themselves."

"Abby won't kill herself," Owen blurted. "The monster would never let her."

"Is that right?" Alvirez inquired. "Well, that's one thing we can thank the monster for. What you want to make sure of is that Abby doesn't get this look on her face. She gets the thousand-yard-stare and your date is over; you might as well go home."

Owen studied the pictures. "But…this _is_ Abby," he observed.

"Exactly. Your goal on your date is for her to be happy the entire time. For her never to get caught up in the misery of her life. She should simply enjoy the moment. Enjoy being with you. That's what I want you to aim for. Observe how she uses her arms, observe the look in her eyes. If she crosses her arms and becomes distant, you know you're in trouble."

Alvirez stood up and started pacing between the oven and the refrigerator. "In my mind there are three primary questions we need to answer: Why won't Abby discuss her taboo topics? Why won't Abby hide the bodies? Why won't Abby turn you into a vampire? Those are the core questions, Owen, so for goodness' sake, whatever you do, don't ask them! In fact, you're better off not asking any questions at all. We should make that part of the assignment, too. Throughout your entire date you're not allowed to ask a single question."

"You told me to ask her about the news," Owen objected.

"Don't ask her about it. Just tell her what you read. Mention something you don't understand. But don't actually ask her to explain it. You bring the topic up. She's free to discuss it or not, as she sees fit."

Alvirez stopped for a moment. "Yes, I like this," he said. "No questions. You're always so serious. You always want her to talk about vampire stuff. She probably has her defenses way up. You've got to back off. Stop trying to go so deep. No questions. None at all. See how she responds."

* * *

><p>"You're so stupid, nothing you say can be true," Abby read.<p>

"Ad Hominem," Owen identified. "Attacking the arguer rather than responding to the argument."

"Come on, everyone else is doing it," Abby said.

"Mob Appeal," Owen replied. "The percentage of people committed to a course of action does not determine the wisdom of that action."

"The Bible is true. How do we know? Because the Bible says so."

"Begging the question. The argument assumes what it is trying to prove."

"Every morning my alarm goes off. Then the sun comes up. My alarm must cause the sun to come up."

"False Cause, Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc. Sequence in time does not prove causality."

"My house is painted white. White is a good color. I think I'll have pizza for breakfast."

Owen took a moment to remember this one. "Non Sequitor," he finally pronounced. "The premises are irrelevant to the conclusion."

"The basketball team I'm on is a great team. Therefore I'm a great basketball player."

"Division. The properties of the whole do not necessarily belong to the parts."

"All rivers have banks. All banks have money. Therefore all rivers have money."

"Equivocation. 'Banks' is used with two different definitions. Your turn." Owen took the Logic book from Abby and continued reading. "You either go to college or become a garbage man," he said.

"False Dilemma," Abby replied. "There are other possible outcomes."

"Charles is arrogant and thinks he knows everything. So let's hear what Charles has to say."

"Poisoning the Well," Abby said. "Turning listeners against a speaker before he even presents his argument."

"Evolution is change. All animals change. Therefore all animals evolve."

"Equivocation. 'Change' is used with two different definitions."

"Lots of people with diabetes have heart disease. Diabetes must cause heart disease."

"False Cause, Correlation and Causation. Just because two events occur together, it does not necessarily follow that one event causes the other."

"The Nazis thought up the idea of eating cheese on crackers. Therefore we shouldn't eat cheese on crackers."

"Genetic Fallacy. The origin of an idea does not affect its truthfulness."

Owen closed the book. "You're, like, totally awesome at this," he declared.

"Thanks," Abby said, smiling. "You have more fun with your homework when I do it with you."

"You got that right."

Owen excused himself to get ready, churning over the list of things he had to keep in mind. Talk about current events. Watch Abby's body language. Don't ask questions. Don't get on super-deep topics. He wondered how on earth he was going to keep it all straight. "Hey, where's…" Owen stopped himself, entered Abby's bedroom. "I can't find my toothpaste," he said.

Abby turned around and hid the tube behind her back. "You can have it for a kiss," she mumbled around the toothbrush in her mouth. Owen kissed her, getting Crest on his lips. She teased him with the tube before finally handing it over.

Owen dressed in his $400 Armani suit. He felt silly, but it was all part of the disguise. Apparently fugitives never pretended to be rich people. He called for a taxi and returned to Abby's bedroom. She was applying makeup.

"The paper says we're sending more aid to El Salvador," Owen remarked, feeling like a complete idiot.

"The Communists made all these promises," Abby reminisced. "Everything was going to be perfect. People here made the same promises. I knew it was too good to be true."

Owen had no idea how to respond to this. What did Communists have to do with El Salvador? What promises was she talking about? And where was El Salvador, anyway? But he wasn't allowed to ask questions.

"President Reagan says he wants to ban chemical weapons," Owen commented.

"They did such horrible things to the lungs," Abby lamented.

"What…" Owen began. He tried to change his query into a statement. "The soldiers breathed the gas," he said.

Abby nodded. "The boys who went to France. They got the mustard gas inside them. They came home and got consumption. I almost felt like I was doing them a favor."

Owen frowned. That sounded like vampire stuff. Alvirez had said no vampire stuff.

"They say Reagan's going to beat Mondale."

Abby laughed. "First election, Minnesota and California didn't even exist. I tell you, when I saw Knute Rockne I sure didn't imagine the Gipper becoming president."

Once again questions surged through Owen's mind. What was Knute Rockne? Who was the Gipper? When Owen got homework help from Abby, he couldn't talk to her about moles, or factor-label problems, or periodic trends. She didn't know science, and she had no interest in learning it. But was Owen limited by the same sort of ignorance? Maybe Abby's knowledge of history dwarfed his so completely that it made certain conversations impossible. Maybe in Abby's eyes Owen was dumb.

Alvirez guessed that Abby had lived at least 250 years. That meant she had experienced American history in person. Plus she read the newspaper every day. She had told Owen that the events of the past were jumbled in her mind. Even if that was the case, every topic from the paper still seemed to trigger a memory. If Owen wanted to talk to Abby about current events, was he going to have to learn history? He hated history. It was even more boring than algebra.

"Reagan was an actor," Owen said.

"Yes," Abby replied. "Westerns, mostly. They were pretty bad." She got up from her mirror and started trying on shoes. "I could never decide whether or not I liked Westerns," she said. "It's fun to remember the frontier. They're just so unrealistic. I suppose all movies are, though. Rooster Cogburn is my favorite. It's interesting when there's a relationship but it isn't romantic. Although I like Romances more. Westerns don't make good Romances."

Abby choose heels that matched her black evening dress. The combined effect certainly made her look older, which Owen wasn't certain was a good thing. The wanted posters listed Abby as fourteen now. But Alvirez kept insisting that formal wear was the way to go.

The taxi arrived and they headed to Uptown Theater. Owen felt he had satisfied the current events assignment, so he shifted to the book Abby was reading out loud, _Anne of Green Gables_. It took considerable effort to comment rather than question. "I don't understand the river scene," he said. "Where Anne is pretending to be Elaine."

"It's from a poem called _Lancelot and Elaine_," Abby explained. "Do you want me to tell it to you?"

"Yes," Owen said, unsure whether he really wanted to hear it or not. Abby's hands were folded in her lap. Was that better than having her arms crossed? Her expression certainly seemed cheerful enough. "Please," he encouraged.

"King Arthur has nine diamonds," she began. "Each year he has a jousting contest, and the winner gets a diamond. Lancelot wins for eight years. He wants to win the ninth diamond, too. Then he's going to give them all to Guinevere. Arthur's an idiot. He's the only person in the kingdom who doesn't realize Lancelot and Guinevere are having an affair.

"Lancelot decides to compete disguised, I don't remember why. He goes to the castle of Astolat to borrow another man's shield. The man has a sister named Elaine who falls in love with Lancelot the moment she meets him. Lancelot has her keep his shield for him, and he says he'll wear her red sleeve on his helmet. So she thinks he loves her too. But really he only cares about Guinevere.

"He wins the joust but gets wounded. Elaine nurses him back to health. She is totally convinced he loves her. But he won't give her the diamond. He rides back to Camelot and Elaine dies of a broken heart. They put her body in a boat and she floats down the river to Camelot. Lancelot gives the diamonds to Guinevere, but she throws them out the window right as Elaine's boat arrives. Lancelot could have had true love. If only he'd given her the diamond."

"So Anne's pretending that she's floating to Camelot dead," Owen said.

"That's right. Anne thinks it's romantic."

Owen knew what he had to do. He knocked on the glass. "Take us to the mall," he ordered the driver. "We'll catch the late show," he explained to Abby. "Let's go diamond shopping."

Abby's eyes got big. "Um…OK," she said, a hesitant smile on her face.

The clerk in the jewelry store didn't know what to make of them. Owen slipped the woman some cash, and her attitude improved. Owen pointed out several necklaces, but Abby only seemed interested in rings. She evaluated the various diamond shapes, settling on round. She chose white gold for the setting. She spent an hour trying to decide what gem size best matched her hand. By the time they needed to leave, Owen had a good sense of what he ought to come back and buy.

The instant their next taxi pulled away from the curb, Abby jumped on Owen and starting smothering him with kisses. He felt self-conscious having an audience, but there was really no choice in the matter: he kissed her back. _I should take her shopping more often,_ Owen thought.

They made it to the theater after the previews had already started. They settled near the back and held hands. The movie was funny, but Abby didn't seem to be paying much attention. She kept looking at Owen and caressing his cheek. He didn't think he'd ever seen her so happy.

During the ride home Owen kept singing, "Mr. Mango on my shoulder." Eventually he commented to Abby, "I didn't know people had sex on refrigerators."

"I think that was a joke," Abby replied.

"I liked the morons," he said.

"I didn't like his brother. Some guy looks up my skirt and it's going to be the last thing he ever does."

"I think I liked Romancing the Stone better," Owen concluded. "What did you do, wake up this morning and say, 'Today, I'm going to ruin a man's life?'"

"Joan Wilder? You are Joan Wilder?" Abby imitated, then switched back to her own voice. "I think tonight's movie was better," she said. "What I like best is when the man gives something up for the girl. In Romancing the Stone he lets go of the alligator, but he still gets the emerald. In Splash he gives up his whole life to be with Madison.

"It's the best part," she mused. "I don't understand why they always save it till the end. Gilbert gives up his teaching job so Anne can stay with Marilla. It's the best part. Why does it have to come at the very end?" She put her hand on Owen's face and touched her forehead to his. "It's better not to wait until the end."

"I'm so glad we're together," Owen said.

Abby embraced him with crushing force. "You love me," she declared. "You love me so much."

Owen held her the whole way home, discovering what he had long suspected: a hug really could be better than a kiss.

* * *

><p>"How did it go?" Alvirez asked.<p>

Owen pulled a TV dinner from the microwave and grabbed a seat at the table. "It was hard," he said. "Turning questions into statements. It took so much effort. But I think I did it. I think I went the whole night without asking a single question." Owen proceeded to recount the details of last night's date.

"It sounds like it worked really well," Alvirez complemented. "She talked a lot. She had a good time. How was her body language?"

"I kept forgetting to look at that," Owen admitted. "She did kiss me a lot."

"That qualifies as positive body language." Alvirez paused for a moment. "So, let's talk about this jewelry store. You went and looked at diamonds."

"That's right."

"What did you say before you went? Did you say you were going jewelry shopping?"

"No, I said, 'Let's go diamond shopping.'"

"You're sure about that? You're sure you used the word diamond?"

"Yes."

"And how would you describe her demeanor in the store? Was she quiet and reserved? Or was she bubbly and excited?"

"She was definitely excited. She kept trying on different rings and holding her hand out like this." Owen extended his arm to demonstrate. "She must have had them check her ring size like five times. She's a size 3."

"Uh-huh." Alvirez rubbed his forehead. "Tell me, when you were in that store, what was Abby thinking about?"

"I don't know. Jewelry?"

"No, Owen. She was thinking about getting married."

"_What?_" Owen asked, taken aback.

"That's what it means when you take a girl diamond shopping. In Abby's mind, you are planning on asking her to marry you. She just picked out her engagement ring."

"I'm thirteen!" Owen protested.

"Almost fourteen," Alvirez countered. "Does it matter? Haven't you decided to skip being a teenager? Besides, in the era Abby comes from fourteen is a reasonable age for a girl to get married."

"She's twelve," Owen said, trying to comprehend the mistake he had made.

"She's an old twelve. Don't get so bent out of shape. This issue had to come up sooner or later. It might as well be now. In some ways aren't you two already married? You live together, right? You've committed yourselves to each other. That's marriage, Owen."

Owen processed this, his lunch forgotten. He was _so_ not thinking about getting married. It was just ridiculous to say that Abby was. She couldn't have misunderstood that badly.

"She'll be expecting you to propose at some point, now," Alvirez said. "Or at the very least to start talking about marriage."

Owen shook his head in denial. "I'll have to tell her that's not what I meant."

Alvirez laughed. "Trust me, Owen. Whatever else you say to her, do _not_ say that. You've built up her expectations. You dare not crush them. What's so bad about getting married, anyway? I'll get you some pre-marital counseling books. Seeing as how you're engaged and all."

"Ugh!" Owen cried.

"Just be careful what you say," Alvirez warned. "Or tonight could be your last night on earth. Still, the incident is useful. I wish I could have seen her in the store. Was she really schoolgirl giddy?"

"I guess so," Owen said, his mood confused and glum.

"If that's true, it answers some questions. For one thing, she wants to be married. That alone is quite significant. For another thing, she's probably never _been_ married. She might have had other boyfriends. But if you're the first she marries, that may mean she feels differently about you than she felt about them."

This made Owen uncomfortable. He didn't like imagining Abby having other boyfriends.

"Well, why not?" Alvirez asked, his voice annoyed. "You want to make her happy, don't you? You're not planning on leaving her, are you? If marrying her would make her happy, why not do it? Seems pretty simple to me."

"I'm…not ready," Owen said.

"If you're talking about sex, you don't have to worry. When people your age used to get married, they often waited years before consummating the relationship. No need to rush."

Owen found himself getting embarrassed. He tried to change the subject. "Talking about the news didn't really seem to work," he commented.

"She responded, didn't she?"

"Yes," Owen granted. "But I didn't understand her." He hesitated. "I think I don't know enough history to talk to her, at least about certain things."

"You're probably right. It's fascinating to imagine how many facts she has stored in her head. The real question, though, is how she analyzes those facts. Does she synthesize all that information like an adult? Or does it just float around randomly, without any organizing paradigm? Such a remarkably unique psychology."

"So does that mean I need to learn history?"

"Of course it does," Alvirez answered. "Your fiancé is 250 years old. Don't you think making an effort to learn some history would make her feel loved?"

Owen sighed. "History is boring," he said.

"No," Alvirez corrected. "History _textbooks_ are boring. There's a huge difference. Textbooks are a blot and stain on the universe. They're all going to burn. Once you get older and start reading primary sources, you learn that history can actually be enjoyable. Fortunately, you don't have to wait until you grow up. You can start reading primary sources now. I'll get you Benjamin Franklin's autobiography. That should give you lovebirds lots of fun things to talk about."

Alvirez got up and began his customary pacing. "You see how you discovered things about Abby without trying, without asking. That's the way to learn about someone. Never ask the questions you're really trying to answer. Instead come up with some indirect way of figuring out what you want to know.

"I'm interested in knowing Abby's stage of cognitive development. Is she mentally an adult? A teenager? A child? It's not like you can just go up to her and ask, 'Abby, what is your current stage of cognitive development?' That's why I told you to drill the Logic with her. Pre-adolescents can't do Logic. Their brains haven't started abstracting. The fact that Abby picks it up so easily tells me that intellectually she's at least a young teenager.

"I think your interactions are also helpful in telling us why Abby won't discuss her taboo topics. You understand there are a lot of possible explanations as to why someone won't discuss something. One unpleasant possibility is that Abby is shallow. Maybe she's just an airhead, a ditz, a dumb blonde. She doesn't discuss all this deep stuff with you because she's incapable of discussing anything deeper than the movies."

"She's not shallow," Owen protested.

"I agree," Alvirez said. "My point is that I think your time last night helps make that clear. She's a whiz at Logic, she obviously thinks about the news she reads, and her analysis of romance stories is actually pretty sophisticated for a twelve-year-old. So I think we can rule airhead out. Whatever reason she won't share, it's not because there's nothing there."

The agent stopped pacing for a moment. "She's depressed, of course," he thought out loud. "But she doesn't fit the usual pattern. She's too engaged, too invested. It's not what post-traumatic stress people are usually like." Alvirez pulled out the pictures of the concentration camp survivors and set them on the table. Owen didn't like looking at the photographs, but Alvirez made him.

"These people are technically still alive," Alvirez said. "But really they're robots. They go through the motions of life. They eat, bathe. Some hold down jobs. There's nothing really there, though. They're shells. They're waiting to die.

"These victims may have family who love them, who care about them. What do these family members do? They make sure the survivor's basic needs are met. They try to make them feel loved. But what's a realistic goal for the family to pursue? Are they trying to restore the person to what he or she was like before the Holocaust? Is that even possible?

"Now imagine one of these victims had a night like Abby had last night. Laughing, thoughtful, talkative, interested. Wouldn't the family members consider that a miracle? Wouldn't they be thrilled to see their loved one enjoying herself? Wouldn't they be thankful just to see her smile?"

Alvirez rejoined Owen at the table. "I don't know what Abby's problem is exactly. I don't think any of the diagnostic criteria fit her. We know she's experienced horrible things, more than most people would be able to endure. She's damaged. She has a lot of baggage. The question is what to do with that.

"I say this because I want you to discern if maybe you're setting your sights a little too high. You want to make Abby better. You want to heal her soul. These are admirable goals. But think about what you accomplished last night. You made her smile. You made her talk. You made her enjoy being alive. Given what Abby has been through, aren't those significant accomplishments in their own right?"

"I used to think making her happy was my goal," Owen said. "But I realized that's not enough. I do want to make her happy. But that's just…a way of getting to where I want to go. I really do want to heal her. I'm not going to give up on that, no matter how impossible it sounds."

"You're talking to me about means," Alvirez elaborated. "That's good. Means are what you use to achieve your objective. You have an objective. What exactly are the means you're using?"

"Three things, I think," Owen said. "I want her to have fun. I want to make her happy. And I want to love her. If I can do those things long enough, and have her not kill anyone else, I think in time it'll make a difference."

"Alright," Alvirez replied. "That's definitely a decent plan. And who knows? Maybe it could work. What I'm trying to get you to realize is that the things you're calling means, most people would be content to call ends. The family members of a concentration camp survivor would be so happy if the victim they care about could have fun, and feel happy, and experience love. They'd consider that an amazing victory. And if that's the case, then maybe, just maybe, you're trying to do too much."

Owen understood what Alvirez was saying. Maybe there _was_ no realistic way to make an undead person whole. It didn't matter, though. Even if the agent was right, Owen had to try. He had to do more for Abby than what her previous caretakers had done. Survival wasn't enough. Even fun and happiness and love were not enough. He was going to make Abby well. Or he was going to die trying.

"I'm sorry," Owen said. "I want more. I want it all."

"Well, you two were certainly made for each other," Alvirez concluded. "If having a good time were enough for her, I think she'd change you. If happiness and love were enough, I think she'd change you. I know you find it frustrating that she won't even talk about making you a vampire, but consider this, Owen: I don't think you're the only person who wants more."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Training**

What Alvirez appreciated most about Owen was that the child enjoyed ideas. Most people didn't like ideas. Owen wasn't one of them. This distinguishing trait rendered the boy's training not merely possible but propitious. It was a delight to teach him.

"All a person needs is love," Alvirez said. "Abby receives love from you. Therefore, Abby has everything she needs."

"Valid syllogism," Owen replied, fidgeting in his seat at the kitchen table. "The conclusion follows necessarily from the premises. But…unsound?"

"Why?" the agent asked.

"I guess because the first premise isn't true. A person needs more than love."

"Good. Next one. Time heals all wounds. Abby has all the time in the world. Therefore, all her wounds will be healed."

"Valid syllogism." Owen hesitated. "I know you want me to say it's unsound."

"It is unsound," Alvirez maintained. "Time does _not_ heal all wounds." The agent could see Owen didn't appreciate this. "I haven't killed a soul for fifteen years, Owen. It doesn't make up for what I did. Or make it go away. Or make me feel better about it. Maybe time can allow superficial wounds to heal. Major damage requires something more."

The agent moved on. "If evolution is true, then there is no such thing as right and wrong. If there is no such thing as right and wrong, then there is nothing to feel guilty about. Therefore, the way to rid people of guilt is to convince them that evolution is true."

"Uh, valid syllogism, I think," Owen answered. "Is it sound?"

"It's a tricky one," Alvirez explained. "It commits equivocation by confusing objective and emotional guilt. Even if objective guilt is an illusion, thinking that it's an illusion does not automatically make a person's guilty feelings go away. But the argument also begs the question by assuming the truth of philosophic naturalism. That's the belief that matter, energy, time, and chance are all that exist. Tell me, what is wrong with the statement, 'I cannot speak a word of English?'"

"It doesn't make sense. If you can say it then you can speak a little English at least."

"Exactly. We say that the sentence is self-contradictory. How about this belief. The only facts we can know for certain are those facts we can prove through scientific experimentation."

"That belief can't be proved through scientific experimentation."

"Good. Now tell me what's wrong with this proposition: Reason teaches that matter, energy, time, and chance are all that exist." Alvirez watched Owen churn through the question. He found himself rooting for his student, hoping the boy would figure it out.

Owen's face brightened. "If Reason teaches it, then Reason exists – and Reason isn't matter, energy, time, or chance."

"Excellent!" Alvirez said. "You're really doing quite well at this, Owen. The fallacies were junior high material. But formal Logic is high school level stuff."

"Abby doesn't like it as much."

"Keep trying. Maybe it'll click. Part of her problem might be her lack of math. It's a shame she didn't get any taught to her growing up."

Alvirez switched books and subjects. "Today I want to introduce the concept of personality types. We're going to use what's known as the Meyers-Briggs Personality Inventory. It classifies people in four categories: Introversion vs. Extroversion, Intuitive vs. Sensing, Thinking vs. Feeling, and Judging vs. Perceiving.

"This book explains it all in about two hundred pages. I want you to give it a try, although a lot of it will probably be pretty challenging. I'm going to give you a basic treatment now using just this handout. What I tell you is going to be overly simplistic, so don't bite my head off later if you decide I left out something important."

**Introversion/Extroversion (I/E)** concerns how much you like spending your free time with other people. If you find yourself always wanting to hang out with others, you're an Extrovert. If you like to rest and relax by spending time alone, you're an Introvert.

**Intuitive/Sensing (N/S)** concerns how your mind reaches conclusions. If you are able to skip from A straight to Z, you are iNtuitive. If you go systematically A, B, C, etc., you are Sensing. Sensing people tend to be practical and hands-on. Intuitive people tend to prefer theory and ideas.

**Thinking/Feeling (T/F)** concerns how you make decisions. Every person thinks and feels. If you make decisions based on a rational thought process, you are Thinking. If you make decisions based on emotion, you are Feeling.

**Judging/Perceiving (J/P)** concerns the speed with which you make decisions. If you reach conclusions quickly, you are Judging. If you prefer to take more time gathering information before reaching a conclusion, you are Perceiving.

"Every person is assigned four letters," the agent continued, "resulting in sixteen possible personality types. It's all rather artificial, of course, but in practice it can be quite useful."

Alvirez pulled out a pencil and started pointing to each section of the handout. "Abby shuns people," he said, "which by default makes her an introvert. The second one I'm less certain about. Does she display any interest in mechanical things, or in doing stuff with her hands?"

"No," Owen answered.

"Alright. Then for now let's call her intuitive. She obviously makes decisions based on emotion. And you tend to do the planning and organizing, right? So I'm going to say she's perceiving. Put all that together and you get INFP as Abby's personality. Then you look that type up and see what the book says:

**INFP** – Creative, smart, idealist, loner, attracted to sad things, disorganized, avoidant, can be overwhelmed by unpleasant feelings. An INFP's feelings form the foundations of the individual. They are sacred and binding, in the sense that their emergence requires no further justification. An INFP's feelings are often guarded, kept safe from attack and ridicule. Only a few, close confidants are permitted entrance into this domain.

"Well," Alvirez admitted, "I'm not sure that really tells us anything we didn't already know. The types are really useful when it comes to relationships, though. You're probably an INFJ. Look at the three areas you and Abby have in common, see where that might leave your relationship with some blind spots. Look at the one area where you're different, and see how you might complement each other. The most successful couples tend to share three out four letters. That bodes well for you."

Alvirez got up from the table. "Most psychologists probably wouldn't attempt a personality inventory at your age. You're still forming, changing. Your scores could be totally different five or ten years from now. Although that raises the interesting question of whether or not Abby is even capable of change. It would be a good case study to examine her now and again in ten years, and see if her personality has altered in any significant way.

"Don't beat yourself up if you can't handle Meyers-Briggs right away," Alvirez added. "It can take some time to internalize. What I really want is for you to appreciate the fact that people are different.

"Now I realize at one level you already know this. Kids form clicks with students who are like themselves. You've seen this in practice. What I mean is that I want you to appreciate differences in people well enough that you can learn how to get along with them and work with them, even though they're not like you.

"Let me give you an example. You're in a relationship with Abby. The two of you have a lot in common, but in other ways you're different. Perhaps physical touch makes her feel loved, while time spent talking makes you feel loved. If you don't appreciate this difference and learn to work around it, it's going to create a lot of problems. You'll always be trying to talk to Abby, when all she really wants is a hug. And she'll always be trying to hug you, when maybe what you really want is for her to talk."

"So what are you saying?" Owen asked. "That I should hug her more?"

"No, what I'm saying is that there's a difference between having affection for someone and making that person _feel_ loved. Love isn't really an emotion at all. It's more an action. To love Abby means to _do_ something for her. The question is what. What loving act can you perform that will have the intended effect? The idea is to get to know her, and to do for her what _she_ will appreciate rather than just doing what you wish she would do for you."

"So you're saying I really do need to learn history."

"Of course, learn history. But do you think that's the _most_ loving thing you can do for her? Aim big, Owen. Get to know her. Find out what she most wants you to do. And remember, every person's self-knowledge is limited. She may not actually understand herself well enough to _know_ what it is she most wants you to do. Figure it out, Owen. No matter what it takes, figure it out. Never, ever take the lazy route and settle for doing what you want _her_ to do."

Owen interrupted him. "Are you really qualified to give relationship advice?" he asked.

"Of course not," Alvirez admitted. "I've got a bitter ex-wife to prove it. Knowing all this stuff is helpful, but bare knowledge can't get you anywhere in life. I have a superior intellectual grasp of post-traumatic stress disorder, body language, and personality types. My brilliance didn't save my marriage, though. It's not knowledge that counts, Owen. It's what you do with it. Hopefully you'll do a better job than I did."

Alvirez gathered his stuff and prepared to leave. "You know," he said, "there is something else you can maybe start helping with. It's pretty advanced, but you can try. In determining Abby's personality type, it's possible we'll actually have to develop two profiles, one for Abby and one for the monster. But what I really want to figure out is if that's even the right way to think about her. _Is_ she two separate personalities? Or do girl and monster merge in a more complex manner?"

"When Abby vamped before attacking Virginia," Owen offered, "she said 'go away' to me. It was the monster's voice, but they were Abby's words, I think. So some of Abby was still left, even when she was in monster form."

"That's exactly the sort of thing I'm talking about," Alvirez replied. "Think about times when there's a definite mix of Abby and monster. How do the two interact? How do they affect or control each other? Are we evaluating two people, or just one hybrid persona? I'd really like to know."

* * *

><p>Alvirez toured his secret lab on a warm May evening. So far nine men had been granted access to the facility. Five of them were currently at work. The agent observed their labors for a few minutes, then led the senior researcher to his office.<p>

"They seem pretty focused," Alvirez observed as he settled behind his desk.

"It is a truly unique project," Dr. Mecklenburg commented, finding a seat of his own. The lead scientist was a tall man in his late forties, with crystal-blue eyes and an overabundance of energy.

"Every time I take a look, Stan is here," Alvirez noted.

"He may not be the smartest man on the team," Mecklenburg remarked. "But he is definitely the most zealous. He does everything I ask of him."

Alvirez nodded. He had desired _two_ senior researchers. That would have enabled him to play the doctors against each other. But Mecklenburg wielded so much more ambition than Dr. Samarth. There was no doubt in any member's mind as to which scientist was really in charge.

"I'd appreciate a progress report," Alvirez said. "It's been eight weeks."

"Our technology limits us," Mecklenburg explained. "We can't do the kind of genetic testing we want. Maybe in forty or fifty years."

"But if it's infectious, does genetic testing matter?"

"It does if the pathogen alters DNA, which it very well may. That's assuming there _is_ a pathogen, of course. We still haven't been able to isolate a definitive infectious agent."

"You've found strange things in her blood," Alvirez noted.

"Yes," Mecklenburg granted. "But that doesn't mean we've identified them. Truth is, we still have no idea what we're dealing with. It would really help if we knew the subject's symptoms."

"In time," Alvirez demurred.

"You've told me and Dr. Samarth that the samples come from the vampire girl. But how does that bare piece of information advance our work in any way? Are we just supposed to read the tabloids and guess at the girl's presentation? We need to examine her."

"She would never permit a medical exam. It's hard enough getting her blood."

Mecklenburg leaned forward. "It seems the subject enjoys far too much freedom, given the great danger she poses to society. A compelled detention would protect the populace, while granting us additional avenues of research. We could observe her behavior and obtain tissue samples."

Alvirez frowned. He wanted to suggest that Abby's rights and wishes be taken into account, but such a line of reasoning would carry no weight with Mecklenburg. The guy was old-school: the strong survive, the weak die. And in his mind, _he_ was the strong and whomever he felt like studying was the weak. In another generation Mecklenburg would have experimented on Jews. He wouldn't have lost any sleep over it, either.

The scientist continued his argument. "Incarceration would protect us from another risk you seem unwilling to acknowledge, namely, the risk of losing the subject. Currently what is there to prevent her escape? If she should slip from your control, we surrender the ability to continue investigating her condition. We simply cannot allow her to escape."

Alvirez wondered what to do. In Mecklenburg's mind, Abby was nothing more than an interesting animal. She should be caged and studied, end of discussion. It wasn't just that, though. The man labored under some bizarre sense of entitlement. In his mind scientists were the new philosopher-kings before whom all other creatures should bow. Mecklenburg had a _right_ to Abby, an absolute claim upon her life and existence, simply because of what he was.

The agent wanted to argue with Mecklenburg, explain that if his naturalist worldview were true no one could be entitled to anything. But the irony of the researcher's mindset was a strange immunity to reason. Mecklenburg knew what he wanted, and the universe owed it to him. Which left Alvirez in a difficult quandary: Mecklenburg could not be controlled.

* * *

><p>Alvirez closed the blinds and showed Owen a video. He was conscious of Abby asleep in her bathroom, but it took a lot to awaken her during the day. He reckoned he could be pretty liberal with the volume and still not disturb her.<p>

"This girl is being interviewed by an expert interrogator," the agent explained. "Focus on her facial expression as she answers this first question."

On the TV screen a middle-aged woman asked a blonde high school girl, "How did your evening go?"

The girl smiled. "It went really well," she said.

Alvirez paused and rewound. "Look at the turn of her lips," Alvirez noted. "That indicates the smile is genuine. But did you notice what she did with her arms?"

"She closed them together in front of her," Owen replied.

"Exactly. That means she might have something to hide." The agent hit play.

"What did you do at the party?" the interviewer asked.

"I hung out with my friends," the girl replied.

Alvirez paused again. "She's telling the truth," the agent explained. "But did you see the shift in her eyes? She holding something back, something she doesn't feel comfortable saying."

They continued watching. "What was the best thing that happened at the party?"

"Well," the girl offered, hesitant. "I met a boy. He was really cute. I told my friends about him and they were, like, 'No way, he's not hot.' But I said he totally was. Then they wondered what school he went to. And I said, 'Clifton,' and they were, like, 'You can't go out with a guy from Clifton.' I said it didn't matter where he went. He has a car. And they asked if I gave him my number, and I wouldn't say. But they kept pestering me, so finally I told them. And they wanted to know what I would say if he called…"

After several more minutes of this Alvirez stopped the video. "A novice," Alvirez said, "would look at this and say the key piece of information is that the girl met some guy at a party. She was trying to hide it, right? And she looked relieved when she finally divulged it. But think about what you just heard, Owen. What did the girl actually focus on during the interview?"

"Her conversation with her friends," Owen answered.

"Perfect," Alvirez said. "She certainly had a good time at the party, but it wasn't because she met a boy. It was because she got to talk _about_ the boy with her friends. Consider how animated she became, the dramatic use of her hands as she recounted the conversation. That poor boy might have gone away thinking she was interested in him. Really all she was interested in was talking to her friends about him. The _talking_ was the high point of her evening, not the boy."

Alvirez got up and opened the blinds. "People are complicated," he explained. "Do you think this girl really understood why she had such a good time? Do you think she could have articulated, 'The party was great because I got to talk to my friends about a boy?' If pressed, she'd probably just have said that she had a good time because she met a boy. Which means at this moment we actually understand her better than she understands herself.

"But even then, do we really understand her? Motives and emotions are multi-layered and complex. Likely there are other reasons why she had such a good time. The food could have been first rate. She might have just gotten over an illness. Maybe the college of her dreams just accepted her. Maybe she was on drugs. Maybe she got to drive on her own for the first time.

"Never settle, Owen. Never stop and think you understand a person just because you discover something they're hiding, or because you think you've got their body language nailed, or because they open up with you. There is _always_ more. Always. You can never get to the bottom of a human being."

They returned to the kitchen table and pulled out some photocopies. "You read it all?" Alvirez asked.

"I did," Owen replied.

"The glasses you've started wearing show that your body is changing," Alvirez began. "What we're focusing on here is not outward physical change but inward mental or cognitive change. This stage stuff can be pushed too far, of course. My mother used to explain away everything I said with, 'It's just the phase you're in,' and it would really piss me off. Yet the basic truth holds: as a child grows his brain becomes capable of performing tasks that simply were not possible at an earlier stage of development.

"You've studied four tragedies with your tutor. This choice of subject material was deliberate on my part because I wanted you exposed to these three clusters of questions." Alvirez passed Owen a handout.

**Child:** Who are the main characters? What is the basic plot? What do the most famous lines mean?

**Teenager:** What are the distinctive features common to all tragedies? What are the protagonists' tragic flaws? What might the tragedy teach about the author and his time?

**Adult:** What is it about viewing tragedies that audiences find cathartic? How do tragedies speak to the universal human condition? Is life tragic? Why or why not?

"I know you can answer the child and teen questions," Alvirez said, "because your tutor tells me you can. What I'd like you to realize today is that your brain is not finished developing. In a few years you'll be able to deal with the adult questions. You may even _want_ to deal with them. And I want to ask you: how important is that to you? Do you want to mature into an adult _mentally_?"

Owen shrugged.

"You have to wonder where Abby is," Alvirez observed. "She knows a lot more Shakespeare than you do. But is she able to engage in an adult analysis of all that information? Or is she stuck with the mentality of a teenager? Do you think she could answer this last group of questions?"

Owen studied the sheet. "I don't know," he replied, his face uncertain.

"I don't think you realize how much you've changed since you and Abby fled Los Alamos," the agent said. "You're turning fourteen this week. So much of what I've taught you you never would have been able to understand when you were twelve. You're mind is developing, and it's developing rapidly. Do you really want to halt that process? Because I think that's exactly what's going to happen if Abby turns you into a vampire."

"Maybe that's why she _should_ change me," Owen countered. "Before we're too different to be together."

"It's a reasonable point," Alvirez allowed. "If she is going to change you, in a lot of ways it makes more sense for her to do it now rather than wait until you're older. I guess what I'm really hoping is that you recognize there are disadvantages to being a vampire besides becoming a mass-murderer. You lose the ability to grow up, to change, to mature. Maybe that doesn't matter to you. But you have to ask if it matters to Abby."

Owen's face became thoughtful. "You know," the boy said, "she mentioned once that she wished she looked like Brooke Shields. I thought she meant Brooke Shields looked prettier, which I didn't understand. But maybe she meant Brooke Shields looked _older_."

"That's an interesting possibility, although I'm more interested in Abby's mind than in her physical appearance. Does Abby hate being trapped in the mentality of a thirteen-year-old? Because if she does, then providing her with murderless blood isn't going to solve all her problems. She'll still be frozen on the cusp of adulthood, never capable of reaching her potential. And what, Owen, could you ever do about that?"

* * *

><p>In July Alvirez decided to bring Dr. Mecklenburg into the fifth circle. The agent sat behind his desk and waited as the scientist perused Abby's file. It took a good thirty minutes. Alvirez observed the doctor's body language throughout the process, and was very unhappy at what he saw. Mecklenburg became more and more agitated, until finally it was obvious that the man could scarcely contain his fury.<p>

"She has to be incarcerated," Mecklenburg concluded, closing the file. "She has to be contained _immediately_."

"What scientific benefit would really accrue from placing her in a cage?" Alvirez asked.

Mecklenburg shook his head, clearly mystified at the agent's slowness. "She _has_ to be held here," he insisted. "Why can't you see that?"

Alvirez could hear the incredulity and outrage in the researcher's voice. How _dare_ Alvirez and Owen "have" Abby! She belonged to Mecklenburg. The universe owed her to Mecklenburg. She was his rightful property, to do with as he saw fit. No one could be permitted to stand in his way.

Alvirez had hoped sharing this information might mollify the doctor. In fact it had only made the situation worse. Mecklenburg was a walking contradiction, a scientist who wanted to be a sorcerer. He longed for occult knowledge, dark magic, unclean secrets. Abby was the spell book that would grant Mecklenburg the noisome power he craved.

The agent finally understood why he couldn't manipulate the scientist. The man was a Nazi. And history demonstrated there was only one way to deal with Nazis: you shot them. If Alvirez wanted to maintain control of the Society, he was going to have to kill Mecklenburg.

He realized in hindsight that this shouldn't have surprised him. The Society was a criminal organization, after all. What kind of men could it reasonably be expected to attract? It was not a secret society so much as a gang. And gangs were ruled through violence.

"We'll build a sub-basement with a cage," Alvirez suggested, pretending to give in. "It's going to have to be an awfully strong cage. Then we have to figure out how to get her in it. I reckon we'll have to do the construction work ourselves, though. I'll start ordering the necessary equipment."

Mecklenburg strode from the office, momentarily appeased. Alvirez had to kill him. No choice. But Alvirez didn't _want_ to kill him. There simply had to be another way. Violence was the last refuge of the incompetent. The agent hated to think of himself as incompetent. Surely if he tried hard enough, he could conceive of a non-violent solution. There _had_ to be another way.

* * *

><p>Alvirez had Owen join him in the garage, showed him the car he had obtained. "This vehicle is registered in your false identity," the agent explained. He handed the boy a packet of documents. "This is everything the two of you will need. Birth certificates, social security cards, driver's licenses, passports. It's really precious stuff, Owen. Try not to blow it."<p>

He stuffed the documents into the glove compartment and popped the trunk. "This is a satellite phone," the agent continued. "You'll be able to talk to me from anywhere in the country. Try turning it on at 10:00 AM and 2:00 PM, Eastern Time. That's when I'll try to call you."

Alvirez pulled a revolver from a holster. "This is a .357 Magnum. It fires.38 Special ammunition, as well as genuine Magnum rounds. Use the .38 rounds to practice. They have less recoil. Once you get good enough, switch to the Magnum ammo. It'll really take some getting used to, but make yourself do it. You want the high-velocity rounds when you're in the bush."

"I have my shotgun," Owen objected.

"I'm not saying get rid of the shotgun. I'm saying keep a sidearm as well. You never know when you're going to need to defend yourself, and the old saying is true: the best gun in the world is the one you have with you." Alvirez returned the weapon to the trunk.

"Your backpacks, outdoor clothing, survival gear – it's all in the backseat. You still have your money hoard from Brooklyn?"

Owen nodded.

"If I were you, I'd stash at least half of it in here. That way you can take off at a moment's notice."

"Why are you doing this?" Owen asked.

"Because sh- happens," Alvirez answered. "Now listen to me. If I call you and tell you to bug out, you bug out. You don't pack anything, you don't wait for an explanation. You grab Abby and run whether it's day or night. Head west to the mountain states. You'll find a collection of license plates under the seat, with alternate registrations. That'll help you blend in.

"There's also a packet of names and addresses: potential targets for Abby. The men on that list are sex offenders. I don't know if that'll assuage your conscience, but at least it'll help you keep from getting caught. Such men skip parole all the time. No one will go looking for them."

Alvirez placed a hand on his student's shoulder. "Now here's the deal, Owen. You _have_ to hide the bodies. Abby should hunt outside while it's raining. The water will wash away evidence. But then you have to bury the remains. And I mean six feet down. Bury the body at a different location from where Abby feeds.

"If you don't bury the bodies, you're going to get caught. It's as simple as that. Bury the bodies and the police have nothing but missing person reports. If she leaves her kills out for forensic investigation, she is going to be tracked, and you, at least, are going to be captured. I wasn't kidding when I told you about new technologies. The resources at the FBI's disposal are simply unreal. Am I making myself clear? Hide the bodies if you want to survive."

"I bought the ring," Owen said.

Alvirez paused for a moment to consider this. "Good," he replied. "That's real good. Just make sure you find the right time to give it to her. She's a romantic, you know."

* * *

><p>The agent realized there was a problem the instant he started checking out the lab. Every man was too formal, too friendly. Their eyes held secrets. Alvirez knew what must have happened: Mecklenburg had shared his knowledge of Abby with the rest of the Society. The researcher was doing what Alvirez had hoped to do himself: grant access to the inner circle in exchange for loyalty. These doctors now belonged to Mecklenburg. If once they managed to get Abby into the cage, Charles Alvirez was a dead man.<p>

Alvirez retreated to his office and emptied his safe of planning documents, Abby's file, and the few precious photographs of the girl he had managed to sneak. He laid out the blueprint for the new sub-basement and tried to figure out what he was going to do.

Killing Mecklenburg would no longer be enough. Not at this point. To regain control of the Society, Alvirez would have to stage a public execution. He would have to feed Mecklenburg to Abby while every single doctor watched. That, and that alone, could restore the balance. The evil Nazi scientist would be offered up to the vampire in a ritual of dark sacrifice. And then they really would be a Secret Society.

Alvirez opened the Yellow Pages and began searching for wood-chippers.

* * *

><p>"This pyramid is called Maslow's Hierarchy," Alvirez explained, leaning across the kitchen table and pointing to the handout in front of Owen. "According to Maslow, the needs of human beings can be organized into five levels. The bottom level contains the most basic biological needs – air, water, food, shelter, sex, sleep. The second level are what he called safety needs – security, order, law, limits, stability. Third level are belongingness and love needs – family, affection, relationships, work groups. Fourth level contains esteem needs – achievement, status, responsibility, reputation. And the highest level Maslow called self-actualization – personal growth, becoming the person you were meant to be.<p>

"Now I realize some of this sounds like psycho-babble," the agent said, "so don't over think it. The key idea is that human beings are not animals. We need things that animals don't need. The needs toward the bottom of the pyramid are ones we share in common with animals, yes. But the higher needs are more abstract: psychological, emotional, transcendent requirements unique to human existence."

Alvirez pointed at the bottom of the pyramid. "Abby has proven that she can meet these needs on her own." He pointed to the middle of the pyramid. "These are the needs she requires you to meet. And it seems like you do a good job meeting them." He pointed to the top. "What you have to learn is what _other_ needs she possesses, and you have to learn whether or not you're actually capable of meeting them."

Owen furrowed his brow. "I don't understand any of this stuff at the top," he said.

Alvirez nodded. "That's why I call it psycho-babble. Forget about Maslow's terminology. Try to fill in the top level yourself. What do you think man's loftiest needs are, the longings he spends his life pursuing once his basic requirements are satisfied? Become a student of human nature, Owen. What does man, and man alone, _have_ to have?"

The agent circled the top of the pyramid. "This is what you've been trained for," he emphasized. "You must take everything I've taught you and use it to discover what's missing in Abby's life. And it's not like you can ask her, of course. You have to utilize some indirect…" Alvirez stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

A man kicked in the door. Alvirez had time to recognize Stan before the doctor pointed a gun and shot him in the chest. The impact threw Alvirez to the floor. Stan reached down and seized the agent's firearm. Then he stepped over Alvirez and passed into the living room.

Alvirez rolled onto his stomach. He realized another person had entered the house. The agent assumed this had to be Mecklenburg, but discovered he was wrong. The second intruder was a woman. Alvirez did not recognize her. He watched as she pistol-whipped Owen across the face. The boy collapsed.

Abby burst from her bedroom, face patchy and discolored, eyes glowing yellow. Stan aimed his gun at Abby, but the woman dropped hers and pulled out a knife. With this she cut her skin, causing blood to drip down her forearm.

Abby sprang on the woman, biting her neck. The next instant Stan started firing, driving Abby away. Stan then hunched over the unknown woman. He produced surgical instruments from a bag and began repairing the damage to the woman's neck.

Alvirez lifted his head. He could just make out Abby, motionless and crumpled in the corner. Owen was attempting to rise onto his hands and knees. The boy glanced at Alvirez and the agent shook his head. Owen stayed where he was. Stan picked up the woman and fled the way he had come. The three of them were alone.

Owen managed to get to his feet. "Put her in the car," Alvirez croaked. "Get me the gasoline."

The boy did as he was told. He shouldered Abby and disappeared with her into the garage, returning a minute later with the gas can. Owen considered the agent for a moment. Then he started running around the house, opening up windows. He piled his books in a mound near Alvirez. So many books!

"Good," Alvirez whispered. "Be sure to close the garage. Now go," he demanded. "Just go."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: The Grave**

Owen drove his Oldsmobile west. Abby lay buried in a sleeping bag in the back seat. She made no sound. She did not appear to be breathing. Owen had no idea if her four wounds would heal or not. He had long since cried himself out, however. He concentrated on the road. It was 1:13 AM, August 3, 1984.

Alvirez had really blown it. That much Owen understood. Abby's secret had gotten out and some stranger had forced Abby to bite her. Owen wondered how long the vampiric transformation took, if the unknown woman was already running amok in Maryland. He wondered if she would know to stay out of the sun. He wondered if she would bite the man who had come with her and turn him into a vampire also.

He and Abby had trusted Alvirez. Things had been going so well. Murderless blood for over four months, without the torments of the Brooklyn ghetto. Going on dates all the time – movies and shopping and Shakespeare and the Kennedy Center. Just last night they had gone and seen Cyrano de Bergerac. Abby had absolutely adored the performance. Already it seemed like another life.

And the schooling! What was Owen going to do without his tutor? Without Alvirez? Although the agent certainly hadn't been smart enough to prevent this disaster. He had seen it coming, of course; Owen realized that now. But the man should have done something to keep it from happening. Owen wondered if Alvirez was alive or dead. He wondered if he cared.

Owen crossed into Indiana and heard a rustling from the back seat. Fresh tears burst from his eyes. Abby was alive! He _knew_ she would heal! Four bullets couldn't kill a vampire. She was made of tougher stuff.

He exited the highway quickly and found a back road. It had only been six days since Abby had last eaten, but Owen reckoned it wouldn't matter. Abby would wake up confused and hungry and thoroughly pissed. He parked in some woods, opened both passenger doors, and backed away from the vehicle a good twenty yards.

When Abby surged from the car she was all monster. She growled at Owen and took to the air. Owen watched her disappear. Then he rooted for supplies, found bottles of water and fresh clothes. Abby returned a couple of hours later. Owen gave her some space to clean up as best she could. He let her take the initiative in approaching him.

They embraced for a long time, Owen desperately grateful that she was still in this world, still a part of his life. "I'm so sorry I didn't watch over you better," Owen apologized.

"None of that," Abby said. "You love me. That's all that matters."

They returned to the Oldsmobile and got back on the highway, Abby laying on the passenger seat with her feet in Owen's lap. Such precious, adorable feet. How amazingly wonderful that Abby was alive. Owen kept staring at her. He smiled, he laughed, he cried. Such a remarkable effect Abby could work upon him. She made him so happy!

* * *

><p>Three nights later found them camping in an empty track of Montana wasteland. Abby showed Owen the proper way to hold a revolver, but she didn't seem very interested in watching him practice. Owen discovered that he was actually pretty good with the .357, certainly better than he was with the 12-gauge. He still missed his shotgun, though. Like so many things it had been left behind in Bethesda.<p>

They had managed to obtain several newspapers, and the articles did not disappoint. Apparently Owen Wheeler had shot FBI Agent Charles Alvirez and left him for dead. The boy had even tried to burn the house down around the wounded man. Alvirez had managed to crawl from the building before it had collapsed in flames. The tough old bastard was now recovering in a Montgomery County hospital.

And that wasn't all. The papers claimed that Abby had attacked victims in Indiana _and_ Maryland – on the same night. Owen knew about Indiana. He assumed the Maryland assault had to be the woman Abby had bitten. The new vampire had killed a medical researcher named Stanley DeRose. She had ripped him to pieces, actually. Owen felt badly about the increased body count, but he hoped having another vampire on the rampage would at least distract the FBI's attention.

Owen wished Alvirez would call on the satellite phone. He had so many unanswered questions. He wanted the man's advice. The agent had left a thick stack of photocopies in the van. The packet included subjects the two of them had already studied together – conversation techniques, psychological disorders, Maslow's Hierarchy. But there was lots of other stuff the agent had never taught him. Owen assumed this was material Alvirez had been planning on getting to. He wanted the agent to go over it with him.

Owen turned on their small radio and found a show highlighting chick rockers. He settled beside the fire and tried to make conversation. "Pat Benatar, Stevie Nicks, Joan Jett, Ann and Nancy Heart. These are women you could really get in touch with," he teased. Abby did not reply. She had been withdrawn and depressed since the events in Maryland. Owen didn't know what to do for her.

Abby had eaten just a few days ago, so whatever the reason for her mood, it wasn't hunger. Had she enjoyed living in Bethesda, and now felt disappointed at the experiment's failure? Did the return to killing for food discourage her? Did she miss all the stuff they had lost? Did she miss going to the movies? Owen wanted to broach these subjects without pestering Abby with questions, but he felt dull, uncreative. He wished Alvirez would call.

"I understand this topic might make you uncomfortable," Owen eventually said, "and I'm sorry I have to bring it up. Alvirez made it clear that the key to not getting caught is hiding the bodies. He put a shovel and a pick-axe in the trunk. He told me to dig a grave six feet deep. He also provided a list of people we should consider hunting. One of them lives in Eastern Montana. I think we should go there tonight and scope out his house."

Abby had nothing to say to this, but she joined Owen for the 45-minute trip. It was a thoroughly unpleasant drive. Abby brooded in the back seat, distant and sullen. Owen felt uncomfortable and guilty about planning the act of murder. It didn't matter that the guy was scum. Owen didn't want to kill people. And as he had learned from his legal studies, there was a world of difference between killing someone in the heat of the moment and killing someone with premeditation. This drive to Broadus, Montana was the very definition of premeditation.

It was 2:30 in the morning when they finally found the man's house and drove past it. There were no other homes nearby; Abby could attack and feed with little risk of getting caught. "Alvirez said you should feed outside in the rain," Owen explained. "I'm assuming you can draw the guy into the backyard and eat on the grass. Then I would drive up. We would load the body into the trunk and drive it to the grave. Which we'll have to dig in advance."

Owen could tell this conversation was getting him nowhere, but what could he do? His involvement in the hunt was necessary if the bodies were going to be hidden. The nights of just letting Abby fly off and kill at random _had_ to end. And they had to end now.

About a mile from the house, Owen found an overgrown field behind a copse of trees. They got out and scoped the sight. "This will make a good spot for the grave," he commented. He grabbed the tools from the car and started digging. Abby refused to have anything to do with the task, choosing instead to sulk in the car.

Owen used a lantern, but the job was still hard to perform in the dark. Breaking up the dirt proved a lot harder than Owen thought it would. He shoveled soil for two hours, till his hands were blistered and his back cramped in knots. When he stopped for the night he was amazed at how little he had accomplished. Six feet meant even deeper than Owen was tall. That would take days of labor. No wonder murderers didn't hide their victims!

They headed back to their campsite. Owen's hands and clothes were filthy, but that wasn't what made him unclean. He was planning a murder. He was working at the disposal of the victim's body. Letting Abby fly off and hunt alone, never thinking too hard about what she was really doing, pretending between kills that they were just another happy couple – it was so much easier than joining Abby in the evil task. It didn't matter than she needed to eat. It didn't matter than her next meal was a loser. Owen didn't want to hurt people.

* * *

><p>Four days later Alvirez called at 12:00 noon, Montana time. Owen marveled at how glad he was to hear the man's voice. He got right to the point. "What happened?" Owen demanded.<p>

"I wouldn't kill a man who needed killing," Alvirez answered. "Of all the crazy times to discover I still have a conscience. Who would've thought?"

"Who were they?" Owen asked, longing for details.

"Stan and Lucy DeRose," Alvirez said. "Stan was a member of the Society. From what I've been able to figure out, Lucy was dying from some rare disease. Stan did it to try and save her. He didn't understand what he was getting himself into, though. He was the first person Lucy ate."

"She's hunting in Maryland," Owen commented.

"She's a loose cannon," Alvirez informed him. "She's wild, out of control. The media are still saying it's Abby. The forensics don't match up, though. The idea of Abby's Gang is back in vogue. It's certainly giving you cover. Everyone thinks you're here, despite the kill in Indiana. Do things right and you'll definitely have a good shot at avoiding detection."

"I'm digging a grave now. I go out every night and work on it. Abby won't help. She won't even come with me. It's really frustrating. She's so strong. It would go so fast. She refuses to talk. She's really depressed."

"I wonder if she feels responsible for Lucy's carnage," Alvirez mused. "She always breaks the necks of her victims. I don't remember if I ever told you that. So she must know they'll turn into vampires if she doesn't. That makes me think there's some bad history there. How else could she know what her victims would turn into?"

"I don't know," Owen demurred. "Maybe that's part of it. She's certainly unhappy about this burial, though. I've seen her distant, of course. But not like this."

"Maybe she doesn't like to think about her kills before _or_ after," Alvirez suggested. "Maybe it's a defense mechanism to insulate herself from the guilt. Which is actually pretty remarkable when you think about it. She's been doing this for over two hundred years, and she still feels guilty? Most people would have long since stopped feeling anything at all."

"We don't know what she's feeling," Owen countered.

"Good point. Maybe this is your chance to finally figure out why she doesn't hide the bodies. She's not a stupid girl, you know. She has to realize the advantages of concealing her kills. Whatever her reasons for leaving her victims in place, they must be compelling."

Owen paused for a moment. "I don't like digging the grave," he admitted.

"Not so easy, is it?" the agent said. "The movies make it look mundane, this ending of a human life. They don't show the aftermath. At least not what happens to real people after they murder real people. There are a few conscienceless individuals out there, of course. But from watching TV you'd think that was almost everybody."

"I can't stop thinking about it," Owen said. "I picked him. I picked the person she's going to eat. I'm going to drive her there. I'm going to bury the body afterwards. Sometimes it makes me so sick I feel like throwing up."

"This is the life you chose, Owen. The life of aiding and abetting a mass-murderer. It was easier in North Carolina, was it? You didn't have to get your hands dirty. You were still aiding and abetting, though. You played a role in every murder she committed down there."

Owen sighed. "I think I'm starting to understand Macbeth," he said. "I wish I'd never read it."

"Abby's previous caretaker, Thomas. You saw him a couple of times. Did he seem like a particularly happy individual?"

"No," Owen admitted, wincing.

"I've seen three things happen to men who start killing," the agent offered. "A few fall in love with it. They come to enjoy slaying. They even look forward to it. These individuals are very rare. The second group becomes increasingly overwhelmed with guilt and remorse. At some point they simply break down. They become incapable of further action of any kind. The third group just grows numb. They die internally, and therefore they're able to go on killing. There's nothing left inside them to upset, you see. Robots can do a lot of killing."

"Which are you?" Owen challenged.

"I died a long time ago, Owen. That's why Stan couldn't kill me. You can't kill a dead man."

"I was afraid you had died," Owen confessed.

"Don't you know what the Bible says?" Alvirez asked. "There is no peace for the wicked."

* * *

><p>Rain arrived in Montana. It was only ten days since Abby's last meal, but Owen knew it was time. They loaded their gear into the Oldsmobile and broke camp. Then they went hunting.<p>

Owen stopped near Broadus about a half mile from the target's house. Abby got out and vanished, leaving Owen to wait. It was a very unpleasant experience. Between the rain and the dark, Owen could essentially see nothing. It was totally the wrong time to turn on music. He sat behind the wheel and tried not to think about what Abby was doing.

She would use her youthfulness and quiet voice to put the man at ease. Then she would say something to get him to go outside. Or maybe she'd just stand there in the rain, silent, till the man's curiosity got the better of him and he stepped through his doorway. The guy could scream all he wanted; no one was close enough to hear. Abby would drink most of his blood, of course. What few drops escaped her thirst would quickly wash away.

The grave was six feet deep. Owen had been forced to stand in it. He had even dug steps for getting in and out. Working in its depths had been horrible. At least he wouldn't have to go down inside it again. But he'd have to go back there. He'd have to load the body into the trunk, drive it to the grave, carry it to the edge, and roll it in. Then he would have to shovel the dirt back into the hole and disguise the fresh dirt with sticks and leaves. It would take most of the night. It would be awful work, the labor of hell.

Owen squeezed the steering wheel and shook his head. How had this happened? How had he become a murderer? He didn't want to hurt people. That wasn't why he had run off with Abby. That wasn't why he was with her now. He loved Abby. She was the first thing he thought of when he woke up and the last thing he thought of when he fell asleep. She was everything to him.

But he hated what she did. He hated that she killed people. He accepted Abby, of course, despite all she did. He knew that was one reason she loved him. He despised the brute facts of her existence nevertheless. Right now she was ending human life, draining a man's blood in a few moments of parting terror. Abby lurked above the food chain, a predator of shadows, an unquenchable monster, a vampire.

A knock sounded on the passenger window, scaring Owen so badly he yelled. Abby got in. The rain had washed her face and hands clean, but her shirt was stained red. She glanced at Owen, looked away. Owen started the car. He put his hand on the gear shift.

The victim's body was waiting for him. It had to be buried. The only alternative was getting tracked and captured. Right now the police thought they were in Maryland. If they left this kill out to be discovered, the search would move west. They'd lose the precious opportunity being given them by Lucy. They _had_ to bury the body.

But could Owen drive to that house, the house of the man he had selected for death? Could he gaze into his dead eyes? Could he touch him and carry him and roll him and cast dirt upon him? Owen didn't want to have anything to do with him. He wanted to flee. And he wanted to flee now.

"I can't do it," he stated. "I'm sorry." He faced Abby, afraid of discovering a look of disappointment or scorn. But her expression was soft, understanding. She gave him a sad smile and touched his hand gently.

"It's OK," she said. Then she added, "We have to go away. Let's just go."

Owen put the Oldsmobile in gear and headed for the highway. They needed to get out of Montana. South Dakota was the logical choice, but where to go from there? Owen had no idea. He didn't know anything. He was a weak, stupid failure. He had put them both at risk. He had let Abby down.

"Owen, why do you love me?" Abby asked.

_Good grief,_ Owen thought. _No wonder she doesn't like it when I ask questions!_ How was he supposed to respond to such a query? And at such a horrible time? He knew he had to say something, though.

"The night in my apartment," Owen said. "When I said you can come in. Your bleeding stopped and I hugged you. You were happy, but there was more. I felt like you were feeling something better than happiness. And I felt like I was the cause. It was the best moment of my life."

Owen was afraid this would sound ridiculously lame, but Abby appeared pleased, satisfied.

"You get this special look on your face sometimes," Owen continued. "You've got a fun look, a happy look, and…and a love look. But this is something else. It doesn't happen a lot, but it's wonderful when it does. I don't know what to call it, so I just call it the 'beyond happy look.' I love seeing it. I love you so much. I'd do anything to make you have the beyond happy look. It makes me feel strong and successful, like I'm doing everything right."

Abby snuggled against him and put her hands on Owen's leg. He remembered how Alvirez had described this: Positive Body Language (PBL). Owen really liked PBL.

"So many times I've felt weak," Owen said. "When my parents separated, when Kenny would bully me, when Bobby would beat me up. I felt weak when the Russians broke into our room in Brighton, when Stan and Lucy broke into our house in Bethesda. Now I feel weak again. I can't even bury a body."

Abby put a hand on Owen's cheek. "Am I weak?" she asked. "When I'm full I feel so dirty, so ashamed, so empty. All I want to do is run and hide and forget what I am, what I've done. You're not weak, Owen. You're human. I want you to be human."

"You said you like it when the man gives up something for the girl. I don't feel like I've done that for you. I needed to give something up for you tonight. I let you down."

She pressed against him. "I didn't mean I wanted you to give up being you. I don't want you to change. I don't want you to be me. I don't want you to be Thomas."

This comment surprised Owen so completely that he turned and stared at Abby, forgetting about his driving. Abby pointed out the window and smiled.

"Right," Owen said, fixing his attention on the road. "You know, I feel pretty much entirely to blame for the _need_ to hide the bodies. You've been able to avoid the police your whole life. It's because you keep rescuing me that they're all after you now. So the situation we're in is sort of my mess. I should clean it up. If I don't, we're just going to end up with a repeat. Someone's going to break in on us."

"So we keep moving," Abby said. "It's the best way."

"Maybe. But before you were with me, you didn't _have_ to keep moving, did you?"

"We're together. That's all that matters. I'm just so glad that we're together."

Owen observed the dramatic improvement in Abby's mood. She was far more cheerful than at any point since they had fled Maryland. Owen had no choice but to conclude that the whole matter of the burial had been weighing on her even more heavily than on him. Clearly him trying to be involved in the hunt did not make her feel loved. Trying to bury the body did not make her feel loved. He was trying to do things that Abby didn't want him to do.

"I felt so weak in juvie," he recalled. "I wanted to be a vampire so I could defend myself and be strong and not have to depend on you. But then later I was glad I wasn't a vampire. It forced me to use my brain and think of a plan. I wasn't strong, so I had to be clever.

"Sometimes I still want you to change me. Sometimes I don't. When I do it's no longer because I feel weak. It's because I think I could love you better if I was like you. But you're saying that's not the case. You're saying I can love you better if I'm human."

"You make me feel like a person," Abby said. "Like a girl. With you I can pretend I'm alive. I can be happy. I can forget. You've no idea how much that means to me. When we go to the movies, work on your homework, spoon in bed, I feel…like I can see the sun. Like I can have babies. Like I have a reason to wake up. You just have no idea what you do for me.

"I don't want you to be interested in me because of what I am," Abby continued. "I want you to like _me_. You were interested in me before you ever knew. If I was just me, just a girl, would I still be special to you? Would you still be interested? That's what you can give up for me, Owen. Give up your interest in the bad part. Focus on _me_. Love _me_. Don't think about the rest."

Owen nodded, grateful that Abby was communicating so much. She laid her head in his lap and closed her eyes. Owen stroked her hair with his right hand. She certainly seemed happy now.

He tried to process what Abby had just shared with him. If he understood rightly, she was saying she preferred how they did things in North Carolina. Abby fed when hungry. But they didn't talk about it, didn't focus on it. Time and energy weren't expended obtaining murderless blood or digging graves for victims. Better simply to pretend to be normal.

Owen considered his history with Abby. She had never asked him to obtain blood, or define a hunting range, or bury corpses. All of this he had pulled down upon himself. Should he give up? Should he just enjoy the moment like Abby wanted, and not think about the "bad part?" He understood the temptation of such an approach, but it would provide no actual solution for Abby's underlying sadness. She was asking for a band-aid. Owen wanted a cure.

Abby sought to hide in a fantasy, interacting with the real world only when hunger dictated. She wished for Owen to ignore these interactions with the real world and spend all his energy maintaining the fantasy. Owen didn't know if Abby possessed multiple personalities, but she certainly desired multiple lives: one life hunting, another life pretending. It was an unrealistic vision. She could get away with it in the 1700's and 1800's. In the modern age it was impossible.

Why had Thomas decided to kill for Abby? Certainly she had let him. But what had she really wanted? Maybe Thomas had gone against her wishes because she was a child. Because her fantasy had become untenable. Maybe Thomas had been the adult, refusing to indulge her. And if so, what did Owen have to look forward to? He would become the adult, while Abby remained a child.

Owen had never articulated his desire to heal Abby's depression, post-traumatic stress syndrome, whatever the hell it was. He realized now that Abby was not unaware of her need in this area. She even had a strategy in place for dealing with it: denial, fantasy, avoidance, escape, ignoring the problem as much as possible, pretending it wasn't there. From what Owen had read it was hardly a new strategy. But it was one destined for failure.

They had radically different desires. He wanted to deal with the vampire issues; Abby wanted to contain them, lock them away. All his efforts, then, were at cross-purposes to her wishes. His labors in Brooklyn had not helped, for the simple reason that they drew attention to the very thing Abby was trying so hard to ignore. North Carolina really was most like what she wanted. There was no future in that path, though. Things could never get better.

Owen wondered if Abby had ever wanted more, desired more. He wondered if escapism was simply her last refuge after all other avenues had been exhausted. He feared that was all their relationship was to her, a means of escape into an alternate reality. Were her happiest times with him so happy simply because she succeeded in forgetting? Was Owen anything more to her than a giant distraction?

It occurred to Owen that Abby and the monster were alike in several respects. Neither thought long-term, both aimed for nothing beyond survival (the monster, bodily survival and Abby, emotional survival), and neither realized that what had worked in the past could no longer work in the future.

Abby and the monster - Abby certainly brought all the brains to that party. If the monster understood how important it was to bury the bodies, it would compel Abby to do so. This made Owen wonder if Abby was withholding this insight from the creature. Perhaps she was hindering it, refusing to help. Perhaps in leaving the bodies Abby was showing she didn't agree with what the monster did. She did not affirm its actions or willingly assist it.

Maybe there was a lot she did that the monster didn't like: leaving the bodies, connecting with Owen, going out in public, perhaps even refusing to turn Owen. Were these all subtle ways of fighting back, expressing displeasure, exerting independence, saying she was still her own person? Maybe she was declaring that she wasn't going to give the monster any more than she had to. Owen wasn't the only person in this vehicle who found the monster despicable.

It was the sort of question Owen could never ask, of course. For now it was enough to know that Abby wanted two rigidly compartmented lives: the vampire life in which she would hunt on her own, and the human life in which she would have a relationship. She wanted Owen to be part of the latter, but not the former. She wanted Owen to accept this.

Owen had no intention of accepting it, of course, but was it possible for him to do a little pretending of his own? Did his plan to restore Abby actually require her participation or cooperation in any way? He could make sure she had fun, and was happy, and felt loved, all while supposedly ignoring her vampiric activities. After five hundred or a thousand years she would find herself improving, and then Owen could make her aware of what he was doing.

But those years could only come from Owen being turned, and Abby was saying yet again that she had no intention of making Owen a vampire. The plan also required the obtaining of murderless blood, which involved Owen in Abby's "vampire life" whether she liked it or not. What could he do about that, though? If she was ever going to get better, she simply had to stop killing people.

It was amazing how every argument, every train of thought, always came back to the core issue: obtaining murderless blood. It was enough to make Owen beat his head against a wall. Why did people want to hold on to their blood so badly? Why couldn't he just set up a stand offering $100 per pint, get his twelve units, and feed Abby? No fuss, everyone a willing participant, no one dead.

He needed a place with no police. Practically speaking, Abby had probably lived in such a place most of her life. Thomas might have been the first of Abby's caretakers to deal with a modern police investigation. Owen wished he knew Thomas' history and thoughts and motivations. He needed advice. He needed ideas. There was so much he didn't know.

He knew one thing, though. If the killing continued, he and Abby were driving down a dead end road. Owen had no idea how to get off.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Baby Language**

The sound of a crying infant woke Alvirez from an unpleasant dream. He shifted carefully onto his side, one hand pressed against the stitches in his chest. The clock said 2:38 AM. He thought about trying to fall back asleep, realized it would be pointless. He stood up slowly and went to the bathroom.

It was Alvirez' third night in his sister's Richmond home. Jennifer and her husband were going out of their way to assist him in his recovery, this despite having an eight-week-old baby. They offered Alvirez their first-floor bedroom so he didn't have to use the stairs. They prepared all his meals. They even kept gushing over how Uncle Chuck was a "hero," causing Alvirez' older nieces and nephews to gaze upon him with awe.

Alvirez knew better. He was no hero. There was nothing heroic about creating a beast, and then having that beast turn around and bite you in the ass. He shook his head. Hero? No. Complete f-ing idiot? Absolutely.

He began shuffling toward the living room, scratching the spot on his back where the bullet had exited. One inch to the left or right and he would have been killed. No peace for the wicked. The wound didn't hurt as badly as the one in Vietnam. Maybe he had just been younger then, and had cared more. This time around, the damage to his pride hurt a lot worse than the gunshot.

Alvirez discovered his sister trying to nurse her baby on the couch. "Good morning," he said.

"Sorry," Jennifer replied.

"Don't be. Kid's gotta eat. I can sleep all day if I like. You don't have that option." He settled into an easy chair, closed his eyes, and listened to his niece Emily slurp her late night snack.

Wounded pride. Alvirez had been so confident in his ability to establish a secret society. How hard could it be, right? Illuminati and Freemasons and Skull & Bones all managed to survive, and they didn't even have a real vampire. Alvirez should have succeeded in establishing the hottest secret society since the Knights Templar. In the end how long had it lasted? Five months? Not even a footnote in the annals of dark history.

He took some small comfort in Mecklenburg having received the same smack-down. The man had lost control of his assistant just like Alvirez had lost control of the senior researcher. It seemed knowledge of Abby was too much for anyone to handle. She did not make a good foundation stone. She was destined to tear down, not build up. It was foolish to try and create something around her.

Seeing Abby vamp had been a defining moment for the agent. For convenience sake Alvirez had assumed Owen's stories about Abby were true, while always maintaining a healthy skepticism in the back of his mind. But now Alvirez had actually witnessed the transformation of Abby's skin and eyes and lips and nails. He had seen the monster for himself. And with that he suddenly found himself accepting everything else Owen had told him.

Alvirez knew there was nothing logical about this. Just because Abby's appearance changed, it didn't prove that she could only drink blood, or that she lived forever, or that she had to be invited in. But for Alvirez, in this case, he had decided that seeing was believing. Which created a problem. For if everything Owen had said was true, then Abby was actually, genuinely, an honest-to-goodness vampire. And a real vampire would not fit in Alvirez' mind.

The agent had become comfortable with two possible explanations for Abby: that she was afflicted with a rare disease plus various psychological disorders, or that she was demon-possessed. An authentic vampire didn't fit into either of these categories. And this lack of fit, this inability to shove Abby into one column or the other, was disturbing Alvirez in a very fundamental way.

The agent had no choice but to come up with a new category, a third category, yet he found himself unwilling to do so. Abby simply _had_ to be explained in one of two ways: disease or demon. And because the agent insisted on this, because he was incapable of expanding his worldview to include the impossible, there was only one conclusion he could reach about himself: Charles Alvirez was close-minded.

Now it did not upset the agent when any other pejorative was thrown his way. Arrogant, cruel, self-centered, obsessive – he took it all in stride. The one slight he absolutely could not tolerate, however, was being called close-minded. It had been his favorite term of abuse during Bible college, the insult he had most loved throwing in the faces of the fundies. Call Alvirez whatever you wanted, but don't call him close-minded. He was a bastion of free-thinking. No idea was so crazy or off the wall that he wouldn't give it a serious hearing.

But now Abby the vampire was causing his brain to freeze. He couldn't call her a disease or a demon, yet he wasn't willing to call her anything else. That made him, by definition, close-minded. And if he, the man who had so ruthlessly accused others of this sin, was guilty of it himself, then that meant he wasn't just close-minded but a self-righteous hypocrite.

He loved spotting self-righteousness in others, of course. It had been one of his favorite pastimes growing up. To discover it in himself was profoundly alarming. He had been the only person at his college who _wasn't_ a close-minded, self-righteous Pharisee. Or so he had thought. The truth, it seemed, was otherwise: Alvirez was no better than the people he had spent his life looking down on.

* * *

><p>"I couldn't do it," Owen said on the phone. "I dug the grave. I was all ready to bury the body. But I couldn't do it. We drove away."<p>

"Maybe it's for the best," Alvirez allowed. "She loves you for who you are. You have a conscience. Maybe you shouldn't try to be someone you're not."

"We're going to get caught," Owen lamented.

"You can always change your mind," Alvirez said, sitting up on his bed. "At least you have Lucy running interference. Until she gets arrested, the focus is going to stay out here. That'll give you some time, at least."

"She's an adult. Shouldn't she be smarter?"

Alvirez thought about this. "It's helpful having another vampire to study, if only from a distance. My guess is that over time, Abby and the monster came to some sort of arrangement. The monster certainly has a say in what Abby does and doesn't do, but Abby also exercises some control over it. Is that a fair way of summarizing their interactions?"

"I think so," Owen said. "At the very least Abby keeps it from eating me."

"Well Lucy and her vampire side haven't worked out anything. She doesn't have a helper tying her down, but I still think we're going to catch her soon. She's just too reckless. But let's go back to Abby and the monster. Are we saying two distinct personalities don't exist?"

"I don't know," the boy replied. "It's more like a continuum or a scale. Sometimes one persona is more prominent than the other. But there's never a time when either persona is entirely absent. The monster makes her read the paper and patrol her surroundings. But she's still Abby, even when she's using her wings.

"I've been thinking a lot about the bodies," Owen continued. "After I left that guy, Abby shared some really personal stuff. She said she feels dirty and ashamed when she eats, that she just wants to run and hide. That's the first time she's ever been willing to discuss the matter."

Alvirez paused for a moment to reflect. "That's significant," he replied. "It's helpful to hear what she has to say. Just remember, people are complex. Motives are complex. Abby shared one reason with you. She might have twenty, or fifty. Don't settle for the one she decided to tell you. That's assuming she's telling the truth, of course."

"You think she's lying?"

The agent could hear annoyance in Owen's voice. "I didn't say that," he clarified. "_Can_ you tell when she's lying, though? She has a lot of secrets. People with a lot of secrets tend to do a lot of lying. Although I'd actually be more concerned if she were telling the truth."

"What do you mean?" Owen asked.

"There comes a stage in an interrogation when the suspect may share some significant truth in the hope that it will satisfy the questioner and cause him to cease the interrogation. It's the same principle as hiding a secret compartment inside a secret compartment. You're hoping the searcher feels a sense of victory in discovering the first compartment, and therefore doesn't press on to discover the second."

"I'm not interrogating Abby," the boy said.

"No, but you are trying to acquire information about her. Remember, the only interesting questions are the ones people don't want to answer. Maybe you're getting close to some answers Abby doesn't really want you to find. Maybe she dumps a lot of personal info to try and keep you from seeking more."

"You know, you really know how to take a special moment and drag it through the sewer."

"She's an onion, Owen. Even if you've peeled off one layer, you've got fifty or a hundred to go. At this rate you'll be eighty till you actually have her figured out. Or at least figured out well enough to make me happy."

"It's interesting to hear you say that," Owen commented. "If it's true what you say, that you can never get to the bottom of someone, what is it that's ever going to satisfy you in all this?"

"I never try to get all my questions answered," Alvirez replied. "That's impossible. Instead I zero in on a few key questions that I think get at the heart of who a person is. I seek answers to those questions. At some point, I feel the person 'click' in my mind. I feel like I get him, like I understand what he's really about. That's what I want. I want Abby to 'click.'"

"Does what she says about feeling ashamed help?"

"Maybe. But the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that with Abby it all really boils down to one question: why won't she change you into a vampire?"

"She said she likes it that I'm human," Owen said. "That I make her feel human."

"Of course there are the obvious reasons," Alvirez replied. "She hates being a vampire and would never want to inflict such a life on someone else. She likes it that you awaken her human side. She likes it that you help her forget. But I think there has to be more to it than that, and I'll tell you why.

"Abby loves you, Owen. At first I wasn't sure of this. I thought maybe she was just using you. But now I'm convinced. And the reason I know she loves you is because I know you. I know what kind of person you are. You wouldn't remain so devoted if she were a manipulating wench. There's something precious there, something you behold in her that makes you rejoice. _Your_ devotion tells me _she_ is for real.

"That's why I don't understand why she won't change you. She has to know how badly you want to live with her, how badly you want to stay with her. Love should compel her despite all her misgivings."

"I'm not sure I want to be a vampire," Owen said.

"Yeah? Well _I'm_ sure you want to be one. And I think Abby is sure of it, too. It would make you happy. It would make her happy. Even with the miseries involved, I still think there'd be a lot of upside for you two. Yet she refrains. I'm telling you, there's more there, Owen. She's got reasons beneath her reasons. I think understanding why she won't change you is what will make her click in my mind."

Owen waited a while before responding. "I don't think she wants a sexual relationship," he said. "She wants a physical relationship, but not a sexual relationship."

"Well that makes sense if she's thirteen. And it really highlights the issue we're discussing. As far as changing you goes, there's no time like the present. Every day she waits is going to make it harder and harder for you two to interact as boyfriend and girlfriend. And I take it you don't want to be her brother or her father?"

"No," Owen said.

"Then time's a wasting. If she's going to change you, she needs to do it now. You need to figure out why she won't, and you need to figure it out fast."

"It took a year just to get her to say why she won't hide the bodies," Owen noted.

"You don't have a year, not anymore. Use your intuition, Owen. That's the advantage of having an intuitive mind. You don't have to go layer by layer through the onion like most people do. You can dive down and get right at the heart of the matter. And that's what you have to do.

"Focus on Maslow's Hierarchy," Alvirez suggested. "I left some articles on it in your car. Read them and we'll talk about them next time I call. And remember you need to figure out what makes her feel loved. It's gotta be more than hugs and kisses. Study her body language. Always, always study her body language, especially her eyes. And never ask questions. Talk, observe her responses, talk some more."

"What if it doesn't work?" Owen asked. "What if she never turns me?"

"Keep moving," the agent answered. "Shift from state to state. Maybe Abby hunts some really isolated backpackers whose bodies get consumed by scavengers. That way the kills won't be tied to her."

"That's not what I'm talking about."

"I know. I can think of three possible plans," Alvirez said. "The first is that you come back here and let me obtain food for Abby. I'll make sure the bodies get disposed of properly. And I'll make sure she only eats people that the general populace will be glad to see eaten."

"She'll never trust you again," Owen said.

"Fair enough. The second option is for Abby to turn herself in. She disappears down a hole in some government lab, but at least she won't be killing people anymore. Whatever agency gets a hold of her will make sure she's well fed. Who knows? They might even let you see her again."

"Yeah, right."

"The third option is for you two to separate. I set you up with a foster-family. Abby pays you visits when she can. You grow up, become a doctor, and secure a supply of blood for her. Maybe you even make some progress researching her condition. When you get older you groom another doctor to take your place. This keeps her in murderless blood, and keeps the study of her biology moving forward."

"That doesn't leave anything for me," Owen objected.

"Note that reaction you just had there, Owen. That tells me you really do want to become a vampire. Whatever solution you settle on, it has to include living with Abby forever as her boyfriend. I'm right, aren't I?"

"I need time," Owen explained. "We were in Maryland for what, like five months? It wasn't enough to make a difference. I need a lot more time if I'm going to help her. Like ten thousand years. In the future maybe it'll be easy to get murderless blood. Or maybe there'll be some invention that can help her. But I can't live with her in the future unless she changes me now."

"Did your stay in Bethesda help her at all, Owen? You've got this grand plan. I gave you five months where she didn't kill a soul. And you weren't miserable dealing with pimps. The way I see it, you had everything, at least for a little while. It should have achieved something."

"More time," Owen maintained. "I just need more time."

* * *

><p>That night the cries of his niece once again drew Alvirez into the living room. He sat in the easy chair and watched Jennifer work at calming Emily down. His sister seemed like a natural, which Alvirez supposed made sense. Emily was her fifth child.<p>

Jennifer nursed the baby for about ten minutes, then stood for a while rocking her. She paused to change the diaper, tried to burp her. Emily spit up some milk. Her crying did not stop. Alvirez closed his eyes and listened to his niece fuss.

"Does she have different cries?" Alvirez asked.

"Not until they're older," Jennifer answered.

"So it's all the same," he said. "Hungry, tired, wet diaper, wanting to be held. The same sound."

"Sick is different."

"It sounds different?"

"No, it's more that they're inconsolable. They don't stop crying no matter what you do."

"If every cry is the same, how do you tell what she wants?"

Jennifer stared at him. "It's three o'clock in the morning, Chuck. Do you really want to have a conversation about babies?"

"Is her body language different?" Alvirez pressed. "Does she make some facial cue to tell you what she wants?"

"Not at this age," Jennifer said. "You're thinking of older babies."

"So how do you know what she's saying?"

"I don't know. I'm her mother. Go to bed, Chuck."

Alvirez left the room, but he didn't go to sleep. Instead he went into his brother-in-law's den, found the camcorder, and set its batteries to charge.

The next day the agent began following Jennifer and Emily, recording everything they did. Alvirez taped Emily when she woke up, when she nursed, when she went to sleep. He filmed his niece from every possible angle, and he filmed his sister as well. Their interactions fascinated him. He wanted to figure out how the two of them communicated.

During the times Emily was asleep the agent would retire to his room and watch video. He hung his eight precious pictures of Abby on the wall behind the television so he could compare the two girls continuously. He studied the expressions on Abby's face, he studied the expressions on Emily's face, and he wondered.

As he watched the film of Emily, it occurred to Alvirez that Abby's attractiveness was really more the cuteness of childhood than the beauty of womanhood. Owen was fourteen now. If his life had not gone off track he would be starting his freshman year of high school. He had hit his growth spurt. His eyes were changing. He was becoming a man. And Abby, poor Abby, was most definitely _not_ becoming a woman. Owen was right: if his future included becoming a vampire boyfriend to his vampire girlfriend, it really was now or never.

One afternoon the agent followed Jennifer with the camcorder as she went to soothe her crying infant. "Stop," Alvirez insisted the moment before his sister's hand touched Emily. "Tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking she needs a diaper and a dinner, and I need a nap."

"How do you know she needs a diaper? Can you tell from her cry?"

"It's common sense, Chuck. She just woke up."

"So you're making a conclusion based on her outward circumstances rather than on her attempted communication. You don't actually know what she's saying at all."

Jennifer sighed and lifted Emily to her shoulder. "You're really weird," she said. "Anyone ever tell you that? Oh, yeah – me."

"What if you didn't know her circumstances?" Alvirez continued. "What if you didn't know she had just woken up? She's crying. Her face is scrunched up. How would you interpret her cries?"

Jennifer sat down and began nursing. "You stick a hand in her diaper. You rock her. You try to feed her. You settle on whatever works."

"A process of elimination, then. You're guessing. But how do you even know what to guess?"

"She's a baby, Chuck. How many different things can it be?"

"It's entirely non-verbal communication that she's giving you," Alvirez observed. "You understand that, right?"

"Sounds pretty loud to me."

"Non-verbal doesn't mean silent. It means any form of communication other than words. Noises, tone of voice, accent, even the spacing between words and the volume you speak them in – it's all non-verbal. Her cries are non-verbal because she isn't using words. What I want to understand is how you turn them _into_ words."

"Huh?"

"By interpreting her cries, you're turning them into words. 'I'm hungry. I'm tired. I need my diaper changed.' You're taking non-verbal communication and turning it into propositions, into sentences, into statements. You're…speaking for her. You're thinking for her. You're doing for her what she can't do for herself."

"I see," Jennifer said, clearly unimpressed.

"But her cries aren't differentiated," the agent noted. "That's what I don't get. You say when she's older she'll have a hungry cry and a tired cry. But not now. Yet you're still able to figure out what she's saying."

His sister closed her eyes. "Uh-huh," she murmured.

"How does a baby think at all?" Alvirez asked. "What does it even mean to say that a baby is thinking? She has no words in her mind. She's not thinking in words. Yet she's thinking. How is that possible? What does that sound like? What's going on inside her head? She's able to recognize the fact that she needs something. Her brain transfers this information to a communication center, and she cries. But there are no words, Jennifer! No words anywhere in the process.

"She has needs," he said. "She can't articulate them. She's aware of those needs, all the same. So what does she do? She communicates the only way she can. And the amazing thing is that you actually figure out…"

Alvirez grabbed Jennifer's arm with excitement. "She doesn't think in words," he realized. "She doesn't think in words! That's why she doesn't _communicate_ in words!"

"It took you two weeks of filming to come up with that?" his sister asked. "Are you sure that kid didn't shoot you in the head?"

"She doesn't think in words," the agent repeated. He ran to his bedroom and stared at the pictures of Abby. If the monster were truly a beast, a creature of instinct, its thinking would be non-verbal, like that of a baby or an animal. Abby was a monster-human hybrid. The creature affected her behavior. Likely that meant it also affected how she thought. The agent couldn't believe he hadn't realized it sooner.

_Abby doesn't always think in words. Abby _can't_ always think in words._ Alvirez recognized the source of his mistake. He had been caught up with the number 250. He had kept trying to imagine how Abby's great age might make her unusually mature in certain ways, despite her lack of cognitive development. But what if the opposite were true? What if in some ways being a vampire actually made Abby _immature_ for twelve? What if the monster at least partially stripped her of the ability to verbalize her thoughts?

_Mental regression_, Alvirez mused. _Mental limitation._ A cognitive fusion of man and beast. Abby's thinking would not be either animal or human. It would be something different, something radical. Like an alien, really. If humans thought in words and animals thought in – what? Emotion? Instinct? Pheromone? – then what did Abby's mind actually sound like? It was impossible to conceive.

Abby had so many taboo topics, so many subjects she was unwilling to discuss. Perhaps she didn't talk about them because she _couldn't_ talk about them. And she couldn't talk about them because she couldn't think about them. Meaning she wasn't able to have a conversation about these subjects because her mind never thought about them _in words_. She was like an infant, processing certain concepts and desires in mysterious, non-verbal fashion, then communicating the only way a baby could: through non-verbal means.

If this premise were true, then he and Owen had to play the role of parents. They had to figure out what Abby _wanted_ to think and _wanted_ to say. She would be helpless, totally dependent on those around her to articulate her needs. They had to guess and guess until they got it right.

"Oh, baby doll," Alvirez whispered at Abby's photograph. "What do you need?" _What do you need?_

Jennifer came to the doorway of his room and found Alvirez bouncing on the balls of his feet. "You know, you seem really different," she remarked.

Alvirez considered this. "I realized I'm not as superior to everyone as I thought I was," he said.

His sister's eyes went wide with surprise. "_That's_ worth a bullet to the chest."

"Yeah," Alvirez replied, and he laughed. "I guess it is." He glanced at Emily, asleep in Jennifer's arms. "From the mouths of babes," he added.

He returned his attention to Abby's picture. Worth a bullet to the chest? Most definitely. He had just figured out Abigail Wheeler.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: Constance**

What would be the best time to ask Abby to marry him? If she agreed to get married, would she agree to turn him? Surely she wouldn't want her husband to grow old while she remained young. But that sounded manipulative. Abby should turn him first. _Then_ Owen should ask her to marry him. He wondered if there was a book on how to propose.

Owen stirred from his folding chair and glanced at the sun between the trees. He guessed it was almost noon. A fire would be nice, but the day was too warm. Better to save his wood for the evening. At this altitude the night would get cold, despite the fact that it was only Labor Day weekend.

He walked around the campsite reading one of the packets on Maslow's Hierarchy. Owen longed to understand the material, but the vocabulary was just too advanced. It was a painful reminder that he ought to be starting 9th grade this week, that much of his schooling still theoretically lay ahead of him. _If_ he could find a way to learn.

They had managed to obtain a few books here in South Dakota. A Geometry text, an anthology of American literature. It wasn't the same as having a tutor, though. It wasn't the same as being taught by Alvirez. The agent was the smartest person Owen had ever met. It seemed there was no subject the man had not studied. Owen missed being able to pester him with questions.

Owen pulled Abby's engagement ring from his jeans and turned it in his fingers, reflecting light off different facets of the diamond. They were awfully young to get married. But Alvirez was right. In practice Abby was essentially Owen's wife already. He remembered reading about something called common law marriage, wondered if his relationship with Abby qualified. If they got married would he have to call her Mrs. Wheeler? Would they have to sleep in the same tent? Would they have to have sex?

He returned the ring to his pocket, tried to focus on the Maslow information. Five levels of needs. Owen understood the stuff on the bottom of the pyramid. It was the psycho-babble near the top that made no sense. Alvirez had recommended that he fill in his own terminology. What did Abby need? That's what he was supposed to be asking. But while he was at it, what did _Owen_ need? What was the difference between wanting something and needing something? Could one person's wants actually be needs for someone else? Given Abby's distinctive personality and history, did she possess any needs unique to her? Would it be possible for Owen to meet her highest needs, whatever they ended up being?

He paused for a moment and closed his eyes, feeling Abby's presence from inside her tent. It seemed like he needed this sensation. He needed to feel Abby close. Was that really a need, though? Did Maslow ever even bother defining the word 'need?' Who was this loser, anyway? Some grown man who drew pyramids and got paid for it. Owen stashed the psych reading and began searching for a novel.

The desolation of South Dakota made North Carolina's Cherokee County seem like a bustling suburb. So far Abby had hunted once in South Dakota. Alvirez said they should keep moving, but that kill had been in the eastern portion of the state, and now they were in the Black Hills. Owen figured Abby could feed here at least once more before they moved to Wyoming. Besides, there were Indians in South Dakota and Abby preferred eating Indians.

Pioneer girlfriend. She certainly didn't mind roughing it. Nothing but their Oldsmobile and the gear it could carry. It was awfully convenient having a car. Alvirez had certainly done all right by them in that regard. And Owen thought he might even survive a routine traffic stop if he had to. Getting older had its advantages.

But every day separated him that much further from Abby. If they had been twenty-eight and thirty, it wouldn't have mattered. They were twelve and fourteen. Call Abby thirteen for simplicity's sake. Add in the fact that girls matured faster than boys, and that Abby had grown up in a time when a lot more was expected of thirteen-year-olds. At best that meant he and Abby were effectively the same age. So now was the time to act.

Part of the problem was that Owen still wasn't sure what he wanted. Live forever with Abby? Great! Become a mass-murderer? Not so great. Owen had known Abby for a year and a half. In that time he had acquired some inkling of the downside involved in becoming an undead monster. Was it worth it? _Would_ it be worth it? If they had access to murderless blood the whole matter would be so much simpler. There didn't seem to be any, however. Not in the Black Hills. Not anywhere.

More fundamentally, Owen didn't know how to broach Abby's code of silence. She did not want to discuss vampire stuff; she had made that perfectly clear. She was _so_ much happier when Owen just played pretend. It was hard to think up a way to mention this most sensitive of topics when it guaranteed making Abby miserable. Such a huge barrier to communication. Hadn't Alvirez said that was common in marriage? The man really needed to send that pre-marital counseling book.

The phone rang. Owen ran to the car and picked up the receiver. "About time," he said.

"How long can you talk?" Alvirez asked.

"I rummaged up some new batteries," Owen said. "So we're good to go. Where are you?"

"South Dakota."

"Really?" Owen asked, surprised. He had not thought the agent well enough to return to the field.

"It's better that I focus on you two," he said. "Others are then free to concentrate on Lucy."

"Do you wish you were chasing her?"

"One vampire at a time. Besides, if I figure Abby out it should make catching Lucy that much easier. You read the Maslow papers?"

"Don't understand them," Owen confessed.

"Ignore Maslow's jargon," Alvirez encouraged. "Remember what you're really trying to do is understand human nature, assuming Abby has enough human nature for such insight to be helpful. What things do people need that animals don't?"

"Well, like I said, I'm having trouble with this."

"Alright," the agent replied, "let's back up a bit. What do people _do_ that animals don't do?"

"Lots of things."

"Like what?"

"Make things, I guess. Build stuff."

"Come on, you can do better than that. Think of jobs. What jobs don't animals do?"

"Teacher. Nurse. Accountant. Farmer. Doctor. Is this really what you want?"

"Think of farmer," Alvirez said. "Do animals plant and harvest crops?"

"But they eat, just like we do. How is that a different need?"

"Man feels a need to manipulate, control, subdue his environment. This need to structure and order his surroundings is unique to man. Think of doctor. Do animals study biology or physiology? Do they make an effort to understand their bodies? Man needs to understand. He won't just allow things to happen. He _can't_ just allow things to happen. He _has_ to understand. And then he has to apply that understanding. That's a need."

"Maybe you should just tell me what our needs are," Owen suggested.

"Maslow does that right on the pyramid. See how helpful that's been? It's a thought exercise, Owen. You have to figure it out for yourself. Which in itself satisfies several human needs, if you think about it. But the core issue in the end, of course, is to figure out what _Abby_ needs."

"I was better at talking to her when I had you coaching me every day. It's so hard not asking questions."

"A basic rule in any relationship is to discover what doesn't work, and then stop doing it. Does asking questions work?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Alright, then," Alvirez said. "Hard it may be. Who said marriage was easy?"

"You gonna send that book?" Owen asked.

"Already in the mail. Check the P.O. Box in Spearfish on Wednesday. A package should be waiting for you."

"I want to go to school."

"I know. Maybe we can work out some correspondence classes or something. You're always welcome back in Maryland, of course."

"What are we going to do?" Owen inquired, his voice plaintive.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "I've been thinking about our questions," Alvirez replied. "I don't think I've been phrasing them the right way. For a long time I've believed Abby's body language to be the key to understanding her. Recently I've decided her non-verbal communication is even more important than I thought.

"Everything Abby does is communication, Owen. And I mean everything. The things she says and doesn't say. The things she does and doesn't do. Every decision, every preference, every moment of silence is intended to communicate. And she wants you to listen, not just with your ears, but with your eyes and hands, too. She wants you to combine it all and decode it into something intelligible.

"That's why I think I've been asking the wrong questions. Since I started tracking her in Colorado I've been asking why she won't hide the bodies. Now I know why. She leaves the bodies out to communicate. She's saying something. The real question isn't, 'Why does she leave the bodies?' The real question is, 'What is she trying to _say_ by leaving the bodies?'

"The difference is subtle, but critical. Don't ask why she won't change you. Instead ask what she's trying to say. It's non-verbal communication. You have to interpret her messages and translate them into words. Figure out what she's trying to say, Owen. Then maybe you'll have a shot at getting what you want."

* * *

><p>Owen drew his pistol and fired. The Magnum ammunition produced an incredible recoil, but Owen didn't flinch. He examined his target. Second ring. Pretty decent for fifteen feet.<p>

"Nice," Abby complemented. She gave him a few pointers on stance and encouraged him to continue.

He squeezed off the remaining five rounds. Alvirez hadn't been kidding. The high-velocity bullets were something else. He didn't understand why Abby so dismissive of revolvers. The .357 was a beast. Owen reloaded the handgun and returned it to the holster on his hip.

_Everything she does is communication._ What did Abby do? She liked puzzles. She went to the movies. She slept a lot. She liked hanging out with Owen. Was there some deep message buried in all that? Or was Alvirez just full of crap? Although Owen had already guessed at a possible meaning behind Abby not burying the bodies. So he wasn't prepared to dismiss the agent's idea completely.

Something Alvirez was definitely neglecting, however, was Abby's telepathy. Maybe everything Abby did _was_ communication, but she nevertheless had a communication method at her disposal far more powerful than words or body language. Twice she had shared memories with Owen. The experiences still haunted him, so remarkably real and personal.

But Owen wasn't just thinking about Abby's telepathy. He was also thinking about something in the article on Maslow. Apparently a previous psychologist named Freud had spent all his time studying people with mental illnesses. He had then built a model of the human mind based on these studies. Maslow had disagreed with this approach. He had decided to build his model based on the study of _healthy_ people. This is where his needs pyramid had come from, the study of people who were _not_ mentally ill.

Owen found the different approaches intriguing. If he understood correctly, Freud would be very interested in the two memories Abby had shared with Owen: a horrible sexual assault, and then the even worse experience of devouring her own mother. Freud would really want to dig into these nightmare episodes. He would want Abby to talk about them and relive them and blah, blah, blah.

Owen didn't know what Maslow would want to do. But he thought this: if Freud specialized in sick people, and Freud always wanted to explore bad memories, did that mean that because Maslow specialized in healthy people, he might want to explore _good_ memories? Maybe the key to understanding Abby wasn't focusing on the bad things, but rather the good things, in her life. Maybe experiencing one of Abby's _happy_ memories would give Owen the insight he craved.

Abby made Owen dinner, a sure sign she was in a good mood. Owen followed the meal with coffee for dessert. He stirred up the fire and waited until Abby joined him.

"I remember when my dad told me about this movie that was playing," Owen began. "He said it was called Star Wars. I had seen an advertisement on TV, and I wasn't impressed. He had to make me go. I wasn't expecting much.

"Then that Star Destroyer came down from the top of the screen, and from that moment I was in love. I'd never experienced anything like it. It was like going to another world, being in another world. When Luke destroyed the Death Star I felt like it was really happening. They were real people, and I had been there with them. It took me a long time to accept that it wasn't real.

"From that day I was hooked on everything Star Wars. I had to go back and see it again, of course. And again. I got the mail-order action figures, the comic books, my own speeder, the Star Wars cards. I even read the novel. I didn't understand what happened to me when I saw that movie. I still don't understand it. I know this, though: watching that movie was one of the happiest moments of my life."

Owen sipped his coffee, glanced at the stars. "Two times you've shared memories with me. They were very painful. I'd like you to touch me again like you did before. I'd like you to share another memory. But this time I want it to be a happy memory. Like when I saw Star Wars. You don't have to if you don't want to. It would really be special if you did, though."

Abby sat still for a long time, pondering this request. Owen decided she would have to think about it. Maybe some other night, after she'd had time to digest the idea. But then she got up from her chair and sat on the ground by the fire.

"Sit here," she requested, patting the ground next to her. Owen did as she said. "This is going to feel different," she explained. "It's happy, like you said. But it's going to be long. That might make it difficult. You might have a hard time…separating. Just remember, if you have trouble at the end, that doesn't mean the memory's bad." She placed a hand on either side of Owen's face and leaned toward him until their foreheads touched. Owen's consciousness slipped away from 1984 South Dakota to an earlier time and place.

* * *

><p>Abby walked toward a farmhouse that seemed empty and dead compared to the star-filled sky above. She wore nothing but a thin nightgown, over which long, matted hair fell. Her face looked hungry, sad, bored.<p>

Abby noticed a girl of about sixteen hiding behind one of the farmhouse's shade trees. She approached the young woman slowly, cautiously. Like Abby, the girl wore nothing but a nightgown. And her hair seemed to be even more unkempt, if that were possible.

At some point the girl became aware of Abby. She motioned the vampire over at once, putting a finger to her lips at the same time. "Quiet," the girl whispered. "They'll hear you."

Abby glanced about quickly, her expression now confused and frightened. She seemed ready to bolt. But the girl reached out a hand and plucked Abby into the spot behind the tree. "I'm Constance," she said, her voice no longer soft. "It's a good thing you made it on time. Peter Parley's coming for tea. He's bringing a live Megalosaurus. It's always best when the food you eat has a sporting chance of eating you first. Are those buttons?"

Constance scooted around Abby and examined her shrift. "I don't understand why they put the buttons where you can't reach them. Jo March sprints faster than a buffalo. She took me for a joint-stool. Susie says she can only come for tea if she brings Hamlet. But _you_ have to bring poison for the play," she emphasized, poking Abby in the chest. "It's always best when someone gets poisoned during tea."

Abby's face grew even more confused. "Who's listening?" she asked.

"This is a birch, this is an elm; no sound can passage through my realm. The doctor claims he retched a place, to stash my parents' foul disgrace. Would you like a gumdrop?" She offered an acorn to Abby. The vampire wavered for a moment, then extended a tentative hand. Constance slapped it away. "You'll ruin your supper," she scolded. Then she put one arm around Abby and the other hand on her hip. "Susie wants to know your name. It's always best when she knows your name."

"Abby," the vampire said, beginning to smile. "My name is Abby."

"Do you want to go hunting with me?" Constance asked.

"Hunting?"

"You may seek it with thimbles, and seek it with care; you may hunt it with forks and hope; you may threaten its life with a railway-share; you may charm it with smiles and soap." She began patting her nightgown. "Did I share away my share? I _swear_." She pinched Abby's cheeks. "We've got smiles, at least. No soap, though. Goodness, you stink worse than I do. Our prey will smell us from a mile. Off with you, Abby. We'll take us two baths. Tomorrow night we stalk."

The next evening Abby returned, clean and presentable. She found Constance waiting behind the elm tree, picnic basket over her arm. "We've no blank map," she informed Abby. "But I still think we can find our way. Don't foul the rudder." Constance headed down the road. Abby followed.

"Three rules," Constance said. "Number one, you can never laugh at Susie. It hurts her feelings, and it's rude, anyway. Number two, you have to read my favorite books and like them. They're mostly British, I'm afraid, but that's the way it is if you're going to be my friend. Number three, you can never let them get me. Are we clear?"

"Yes," Abby said.

"And what are your rules?"

The vampire took some time to think. "We never talk about family," she said. "It hurts my feelings. You have to do my laundry, and you can't complain no matter how bad the stains are. And you're never allowed to ask me to see the sun."

"Day and night shall cease," Constance observed, "unless we harvest raspberries." She stopped by a clump of bushes and began picking fruit. Abby joined her. They filled a clay pot inside Constance's picnic basket. Abby kept pausing to smile at her new friend. A few times she even giggled.

Constance eventually took Abby off the road to a large stone house. She went up onto the porch and knocked boldly on the front door. After a minute a balding man in his fifties opened to inspect them. He held a lantern high and gazed through his spectacles.

"Constance?" the man inquired. "What are you doing out so late, child? It's one-thirty in the morning."

Constance glanced at Abby and waited. Abby spoke up. "Pardon us, sir," she said. "We were reciting lines in Boxer's Field. Then we wanted to see the stars, but we stayed too long. We took a shortcut to hurry home. A foolish course in the dark, sir; we lost our way. It's cold, and we're so very tired. Might we please come in?"

"Certainly. Come in, come in," the man replied, ushering them through the door. "There are blankets this way. I'll build up the fire." They followed their host through the foyer into a sitting room crammed with overstuffed furniture. "Your parents are sure to be terribly worried, Constance," the man clucked. "How many times must we tell you not to leave your property unescorted?"

"I have Abby with me, Dr. Williamson," Constance said, squeezing the vampire's hand.

"Well, that's fine," the man allowed. "But you shouldn't be out at night. There are some predators perfectly willing to eat people, you know."

Constance's voice turned accusatory. "You told Father I'm the Mad Hatter. _Susie's_ the Mad Hatter. _I'm_ Alice. And Abby," she added, stroking the vampire's long hair, "is Wonderland." She directed her attention to Abby. "You promised," Constance reminded her. "You can never let them get me."

Abby leaped on the doctor, bowling him over. She bit into his carotid artery and he screamed. There was a brief struggle, but it didn't affect the outcome. After thirty seconds the man grew still.

Constance pulled a tea set from her basket and arranged the pieces on the floor. "Save some for me," she insisted, pushing on the monster until she gave way. Constance held a cup against the doctor's neck. When she was satisfied with how much tea she had gathered, she permitted Abby to resume.

Constance used her fingers to comb the dead man's hair. "Your saucer needs cleaning," she said. "The walls have ears; no asylum is free; I see what I eat; I eat what I see. That'll teach you to play with spoons." She took a sip of blood from her teacup. "Now I get it. You want to go to the beach. Don't get sand on your scones, mind you. It's worse than lemon."

Abby broke the doctor's neck, reverted to girl form, and sat smiling at Constance in fascination.

"You need to work on your manners," Constance lectured, pulling out a napkin and wiping Abby's chin. "No use crying over spilled milk. Seems like you ate more than your share of the raspberries. That means I get the other lump of sugar." She plopped a white cube into her teacup, tried to swirl it. "You should really steep the leaves," Constance recommended, swallowing a mouthful. "It's no wonder you forget to bathe."

The scene shifted to another night. Abby waited in the barn behind her friend's house. Constance entered mid-conversation. "You're being very rude," she commented. "Abby's not that kind of girl." She reached the vampire's hiding spot and rummaged in a bag. "Susie insists. Please don't be cross." Constance pulled out three cloves of garlic, a silver crucifix, and a glass jar filled with water.

She raised the crucifix and shoved it in Abby's face. She rubbed the garlic on Abby's arms. She poured the water over Abby's head. "That settles it," Constance concluded. "Susie says you are a very peculiar sort of vampire. Can you see your reflection?" Abby nodded. "Can you turn into mist?" Abby shook her head no. "Can't vampires do their own laundry? You must have Chinamen in Transylvania. Hypnotize me, hypnotize me! Oh, _please_ do, Abby."

Abby took hold of her friend and shared a memory. In this flashback she cowered in a shack next to a wood-burning stove. A man with a thin beard glanced at Abby, then cocked his head as someone banged on the door. "You've got to answer for her, John," a voice insisted. "You come willingly or things are going to get a lot less polite."

Abby surged outside in a wild fury. She bit the first constable's head off. Constance cheered. The second man she tore in half. Constance whooped like it was the start of summer vacation. The last officer Abby ate slowly. Constance gloated through the meal, then stood up, severing the connection. She danced in circles and clapped. "You throw the best parties," she informed Abby. "And the guests _always_ bring something to eat!" Abby's somber expression changed into a grin.

Constance began running about the barn, peeking through cracks in the walls. "They're coming for us, Abby. They always know where we are. Will a boojum make you vanish? I haven't been the same since I vanished. Maybe we could take the train. Susie's jealous. She thinks we'll leave her at the station."

"Susie…" Abby said. Her face became thoughtful. "Susie can come, of course. Susie, _please_ come. It won't be the same without you. I promise to put sugar in your tea. It'll be fabulous… three huntresses against the world."

The scene shifted again. Abby flew into a courtyard surrounded by a tall, wrought-iron fence. She entered a brick mansion and killed the nurse on duty in the lobby. She started heading down the corridors, pulling open door after door, freeing the patients. One surprised orderly got his heart ripped out. Another Abby paused over long enough to eat.

She found the right room, but Constance would not leave. Abby took her by the hand and urged her to get off the floor. Constance stayed in the corner, arms wrapped around her knees. She refused to look at Abby.

"It's time to go," the vampire said, her tone urgent. "Just like we said. The three of us stick together. Come on, Constance."

"I didn't kill Dr. Williamson," Constance repeated. "My secret vampire friend did. She only comes out at night and she has to drink human blood and holy water doesn't hurt her and she sprouts wings. She puts thoughts in my mind. She plays nice with Susie. Everyone is out to get her. No, Abby, you needn't be blue; I'm truly, madly crazy for you!"

The girl broke into a grin, jumped to her feet, and gave Abby a kiss. Some blood transferred to Constance, who licked her lips and frowned. "You know how I like my tea," she complained. Constance held her mouth open until Abby produced a sugar cube and placed it on her tongue. Then she took Abby's hand and led her skipping into the hallway.

"I _told_ you they were out to get me," Constance said, stopping by the body of one of the orderlies. She grasped Abby's other hand and began dancing around the corpse, forcing Abby to do the same. "The snark and friendly jabberwok, consumed the mouse inside the clock; the snark I roasted on a spit, the half rodent inside of it. Sing, Abby! We can't fly unless you sing."

The girls spun around the body, Constance chanting nonsense and urging Abby and Susie to join her. Abby started giggling, then laughing freely, until finally she, too, began singing in time to Constance's inner music. Abby's motions grew thrilled, ecstatic, wild. She gave herself to the dance, flinging her hair and stomping her feet. Eventually they collapsed on the floor, panting and blood-spattered, the undead girl and the insane girl and the imaginary girl. None of them had ever felt so alive.

* * *

><p>Abby released him. The abrupt cessation jarred Owen, leaving him light-headed and disoriented. He grabbed Abby and started kissing her, driven by a mindless urgency. She soon escaped and moved away, placing the fire pit between them. "You're…confused," she suggested. "Maybe you could splash some water on your head." She rummaged for a bucket and handed it to him. "A lot of water."<p>

Owen stumbled to the creek, clumsy, half-aware, uncertain of where he was. He dunked his head directly into the mountain stream. After a minute his thoughts began to organize. He was Abby's boyfriend. They were in the Black Hills. It was September, 1984. Abby had shared a memory.

Shared? It was no mere sharing. It was like he and Abby had fused. Owen had never imagined two people could feel so closely connected. Although he could still feel Abby's presence just up the hill, he was now suffering a painful sense of loss. For the briefest interval they had been one. But alas, they were two. Owen hated it. He wanted to go back and be a part of her again.

A fresh wave of dizziness swept over him. Owen picked up the bucket, filled it with water, and dumped the whole thing over himself. He concentrated on what had just happened. He had tried to have sex with Abby. He would have gone through with it, too, if she had let him. Abby had made him stop.

Why had Owen, in a single out-of-control moment, tried to so radically alter their physical relationship? That wasn't what she wanted. Although as he thought about it, he realized Abby's facial expressions and other body language had actually been quite inviting. Maybe he needed to reevaluate her interest in sexual intimacy. But that wasn't the issue at the moment. The issue was why Abby had stopped him. It hadn't been because _she_ wanted to stop. It had been because she knew _Owen_ wanted to stop.

This amazed Owen, for the two of them had never once discussed the matter. Abby nevertheless knew that he wanted to wait – until marriage, until they were older – Owen wasn't sure _what_ he was waiting for, actually. But he felt the time wasn't right. Abby had been interpreting _his_ non-verbal signals, and she had been interpreting them correctly. His girlfriend knew what he really wanted, without him ever telling her.

He tried to sort out what he had witnessed and felt during the telepathic bond. The two previous instances of memory-sharing had been brief. This was radically different, an extended, life-altering episode of observation-empathy that took him into the very core of the girl he loved. No exchange of thoughts, though. Owen had witnessed Abby's actions and felt her emotions, but he had not read her mind. He reckoned Alvirez would find this missing component frustrating to the point of distraction.

A half hour later Owen rejoined Abby by the fire. "Thank you," he said. "That was amazing."

"You're welcome," she replied, beaming.

"Constance has…an interesting sense of humor," Owen remarked.

Abby nodded. "I think she would have found horror movies amusing. I think that's what my memories were to her. It was like watching a movie. I don't think she ever realized it was real."

"She seemed to have issues."

"Mad as the wind and the sea," Abby said, her voice distant. "She was the best friend I ever had. Does that mean I'm crazy?"

"It means you're needy," Owen answered. "She was very good at meeting your needs. I think it's great she was able to." Owen wasn't sure he really believed this last part. It made him jealous that Abby had experienced such a close relationship with someone else. It bothered him that Constance had been _capable_ of meeting Abby's needs. He wondered how unique or special he really was, if even this crazy girl had been able to help Abby.

"We were together fifty years," Abby said. "I shared a memory with her almost every single night. It didn't affect her like it affects you. I often wondered if it hurt her, though. She never knew what was real and what wasn't. Maybe sharing the dreams made that worse. She just found them so entertaining. And she could be very persistent."

"She was right," Owen observed. "People really were out to get you."

"She was the perfect protector. No one could _ever_ sneak up on us. She was watching, always watching, convinced that 'they' were coming."

This comment reminded Owen of his own inadequacy as a guardian. Twice enemies had caught him unprepared. At least now he always kept a revolver on his hip, regardless of how heavy or inconvenient the gun was. One lesson learned the hard way.

"I never met anyone so anxious or scared," Abby continued. "But she made me laugh. I always loved how she made me laugh."

"I could feel her emotions, too," Owen said. "When you were sharing the memory with her. That must mean the connection works both ways. When you're sharing with me, can you feel what I'm feeling?"

"I feel your reactions to what I'm showing you," Abby said. "Your heart's response. It's a very intimate experience. Except it wasn't like that with Constance. I mean, I felt her fear and confusion. She just had limits, I guess. We could only go so deep."

"You were probably helpful to her," Owen suggested.

"We helped each other. Her condition drew all the attention her way. And if anyone ever did suspect us, she was always the one they guessed they should be after. I made sure she put on clothes and ate and stuff like that. She made sure I had fun. Everything was a game to her. She could laugh at anything."

Owen guessed at why Abby and Constance had been such good friends. Abby preferred living in a fantasy world in which she ignored vampire stuff as much as possible. Who better to help craft and maintain such a fantasy than someone who was mentally ill? And surely Constance's delighted responses to the killing must have eased Abby's shame. Tea and toys rather than blood and corpses? In some ways Constance really was the ideal guardian for Abby. Owen always wanted to get into serious talks. Constance didn't seem to display that tendency.

"I can see how precious she was to you," Owen said. "Sometimes you even had that special expression I mentioned, the beyond happy look."

Abby gave him a sad smile. "When she died I was in a bad way. Thomas eventually came along. He cared about me. Too much, really. But it wasn't the same as Constance."

Owen hugged Abby and rubbed her back. He didn't know if memory-sharing qualified as non-verbal communication, but it certainly qualified as _effective_ communication. Through the link Owen didn't simply _learn_ that Constance was fun; Owen _had fun with Constance_. He _felt_ the happiness Constance made Abby feel. He felt Abby's love for her friend.

But the best thing about the telepathic bond was that it enabled Owen to know the emotional content of Abby's body language. During the link, he observed her expressions and gestures _and knew what she was feeling at the exact same moment._ If Owen could apply this information to their normal interactions, he would no longer have to guess what Abby's body language meant. It was like he had been listening to Morse code for eighteen months, uncertain how to interpret it. Abby had just handed him the decoding key.

The telepathic experience actually overwhelmed Owen with data to interpret. It would take considerable time to sift through everything Abby had shared. _So_ many non-verbal cues combined with _so_ many different emotions. Owen would never be able to remember everything. He wished he could find a notebook and write down as much as possible before he forgot, but this special moment with Abby would not permit it. He settled for hugging her tighter.

One thing, at least, Owen was certain to retain. Throughout the Constance memories, Abby had repeatedly experienced an emotion she seemed to value way more than fun, or happiness, or even love. At those critical moments, when her face displayed the 'beyond happy look,' what Abby was feeling was _hope_. It was of critical importance to his girlfriend, this feeling. Owen sensed it was what Abby had most appreciated about Constance: the insane girl had made the vampire girl hopeful.

In his mind Owen unfolded a copy of Maslow's Hierarchy. He erased the old school psycho-babble and wrote 'hope' at the top of Abby's pyramid.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: Enigma**

"What is hope?" Owen asked over the satellite phone.

"It's one of the three core virtues in the Bible," Alvirez explained. "Faith, hope, and love. Faith is concerned mainly with the past, believing that God has performed certain specific acts in history. Hope is concerned mainly with the future, believing that God is going to keep his promises. And love concerns the present, the way a person lives given what God has done in the past and is going to do in the future. Your mom's religious. Any of this ringing bells?"

"No," Owen said.

"Well even in secular thought hope has to do with the future. To have hope means you're looking forward to something. You believe tomorrow is going to be better than today.

"Mind you, there's a difference between _feeling_ hope and actually having something to hope for. It's possible a person's future is going to be really good, but that person doesn't know it or believe it. So there's an objective hope out there, but the person doesn't feel the corresponding emotion. And vice-versa, of course. Just because a person feels hope doesn't mean things really are going to get better. The person might be deluded."

Owen shared the story of Constance with Alvirez. "I think I make Abby feel hope," Owen concluded. "At least sometimes."

"Nothing personal," the agent replied, "but that doesn't really make a lot of sense. If she's incapable of change, what can there ever be for her to look forward to?"

"Her circumstances can change. Her life can change. If I become a vampire and we secure a permanent source of murderless blood, her life will be better. That's something to look forward to."

"Perhaps," Alvirez granted. "But have you ever told her what you're trying to do for her?"

"No," Owen admitted. "She might've figured it out, though."

"Even if she did, do you think that's why this girl Constance gave her hope?"

Owen considered this. "Well, what do _you_ think she's looking forward to?" he asked.

"I have no idea," Alvirez said. "Is she really feeling hope? Maybe you got that wrong."

"You don't understand the telepathy," Owen replied. "I feel everything she feels. We become one person. It's unreal."

"Pity you don't know what she's thinking."

"I thought you'd say that. But it gives me the key to understanding her body language. Don't you understand? When I focus on her expressions and her gestures I'll be able to guess what she's feeling."

"But not what she's thinking," Alvirez noted.

"Didn't you identify her as a strong F? That means her feelings are more important than her thoughts, at least when it comes to decision-making."

"Good point. I wish you could just ask her why she's feeling what she's feeling."

"Welcome to my life," Owen said.

"Where are you?" Alvirez asked.

"Wyoming. Where are you?"

"Close. I'm going to keep my satellite phone on tonight. Call me if you need to. Is that clear? I'll be waiting for you to call."

* * *

><p>After dinner Owen settled before the fire, a book in his hand, Abby at his side. "We've been together for kind of a while now," he began. "I know we haven't really talked about where our relationship is headed, but I thought we could maybe start tonight. A just got this stuff for pre-marital counseling," he said, holding up the book. "I thought maybe we could talk over some of it."<p>

This idea seemed to please Abby quite a bit. She smiled and turned toward Owen, her face expectant. "That sounds great," she said.

Owen skimmed over the table of contents. The chapters on finances, religion, and childrearing he figured they could ignore. The section on communication was what he really wanted to dig into, but part of his frustration with Abby, of course, was that she refused to discuss their communication difficulties. He decided they should just start with the introduction and see what happened.

"There's a series of basic questions," Owen informed her. "Here's what I was thinking. I can read each question and try to answer it. Then you can say something on the subject, too, if you want. Sound good?"

Abby gave him another smile and nodded. Owen set to reading each question out loud and responding as best he could:

**How did the two of you meet?**

"We met in the courtyard of our apartments," Owen said. "I'm glad we ended up becoming friends."

"Me, too," Abby replied.

**How long have you known each other?**

"Since February of last year," Owen answered. "It's September of 1984 now."

**How long have you been dating?**

"In my mind," Owen said, "we officially began dating when you said you'd go steady with me. Although getting on the train seems important, too."

"That was like getting engaged," Abby offered. "We just didn't call it that."

This thought surprised Owen, but as he considered it, he realized Abby was probably right. Running away together seemed to qualify as something more serious than dating.

**Why do you want to get married?**

Owen pondered this. "I know we haven't really talked about this," he acknowledged. "But I've been thinking about it some. Alvirez says we should get married because in practice we already are married. That doesn't sound like it makes much sense, though. But what would be different if we _did_ get married? Besides our physical relationship, I mean."

"It's nice to make it official," Abby said. "And I would really like it," she added.

"Well that's reason enough, certainly," Owen replied. He figured he should've had something more profound or more romantic to say to this question, berated himself for not planning out his answer in advance. If wearing the ring would make her feel special, what more reason did he really need? He supposed he ought to think past that, though.

**What core values do you share with your future spouse?**

Owen had no idea how to respond. "I'm not sure what the question means," he finally admitted.

"Me neither," Abby said.

Owen shrugged and moved on.

**What are the main differences between the two of you?**

"I'm going to assume this question is about more than just the fact that you're a vampire and I'm not." He hesitated to continue, decided to go ahead. "I think one way maybe we're different is that I think more about the future. Making plans, wanting to discuss our dreams. That sort of thing." Owen hoped Abby would have something to say to this, but she remained silent. He waited as long as he dared, then proceeded to the next question.

**What are your expectations for married life?**

"I don't understand this one, either," Owen said.

"I think it means how you want to spend your time," Abby suggested. "Do you want to just hang out with each other, or do you want to do things with friends and family?"

"I appreciate you saying that," Owen replied. "I've wondered sometimes if you'd like to have friends. I think I'd like to. The only other person I have to talk to is Alvirez. He hardly qualifies as a friend." Once again Owen gave Abby time to add more. Once again she did not. He wanted to ask her questions so badly. But he knew that would just make her shut down.

**How do your friends and family feel about your relationship?**

"I don't care what my family feels," Owen said. "Next question."

**Have either of you been married before?**

This one made Owen uncomfortable. "No," he answered, then looked at Abby and begged her with his eyes to at least answer this one.

"No," she said, thrilling his heart.

**Have either of you been in love before? How many times? How long ago was the last time? What is there about your present relationship that makes it different from those past instances which did not last?**

Owen only read the first of these out loud. That one alone was difficult enough. He knew that at least two of Abby's prior caretakers had been male. Had she loved them? Had they loved her? Part of Owen wanted to know. Part of him did not. "You're the only person I've ever loved," Owen said.

"I've never loved anyone like I love you," Abby offered in response.

Owen felt another rush. "Alvirez says love isn't a feeling. He says it's an action."

"False dilemma," she said, making Owen smile. "I say it's both."

"I want to do what will make you feel loved," Owen said.

"I know," she replied. "And it makes me so glad that you do."

"Alvirez says people are different, that what makes one person feel loved is different than what makes another person feel loved. I wonder if that's true."

"Definitely," Abby said.

"I think…you like physical love," Owen suggested. "I think maybe I like conversation. When you told me how you feel ashamed after feeding, that made me feel loved. That doesn't mean I don't like kissing you!" he added hastily. "In fact, we should probably do some of that soon."

"Definitely," Abby replied.

**Describe both the strengths and weaknesses of your partner.**

"Alright," Owen said. "Kind of awkward. You rescued me three times. You cared about me when no one else did. You let me in. The one thing I wish is that you'd let me in more. There's so much I want to know about you, so many things I'd like to understand. I feel like I could love you better if you talked more openly about some of the things that make you uncomfortable."

"You accept me for who I am," Abby replied. "You let me in. You hold me and make me happy and are always thinking about me. You love me so much. You don't have any weaknesses. I don't deserve you."

Owen blushed at this, uncertain what to say. He read the next query.

**What, if anything, needs to change in your partner and what will happen if he/she cannot change?**

Owen wanted to say he needed to change into a vampire, but he had a hard time imagining that was what the question had in mind. Abby hadn't changed a bit from the day they had gotten on the train. Alvirez thought Abby _couldn't_ change. If that was true, Owen would have to accept her exactly as she was. Even if something about her did need changing, no change might be forthcoming. "I love you for who you are," Owen said. "You don't have to change in any way for me to love you."

"I don't want you to change," Abby replied. "I think you're perfect just like this."

**What potential problems do you anticipate in your marriage?**

"I've been thinking about this one," Owen said. "I think it assumes people will have new problems when they're married that they didn't have when they were dating. I'm not really sure what it's talking about, though. We're not the usual dating couple. I mean I can't think of any new problems that would pop up just because we got married."

Abby simply nodded.

**Is this person the only one with whom you could be happy and what happens if he/she passes away?**

"You're definitely the only person I could be happy with," Owen declared. He almost added that he was glad Abby would never pass away. Then he remembered he had said something similar in Brooklyn once, and it had really soured Abby's mood. He kept the thought to himself. Owen also wanted to shout, _You can keep me from passing away!_ But he knew that probably wouldn't work out so well, either.

Had Abby been happy with any of her other caretakers? Owen was especially interested in the men, of course. They had passed away. Abby had eventually found someone else. Was Owen something more to her? Was he someone special, a unique person? He had a hard time contemplating becoming like Thomas, just an old father-figure getting replaced by another boy.

**Is your partner responsible for your happiness and, if he/she is, how will he/she do that?**

"That's a heavy question," Owen said. "You make me happy, no doubt about that. In juvie it made me happy just knowing you were out there. There's certainly no way I could be happy without you. But I feel responsible for your happiness, too. I really do. I feel it's my job to make you happy. And it makes me feel so amazing when I do."

"I wasn't happy before we met," Abby said. "Now I'm happy all the time."

"I finished a book a couple of days ago," Owen continued. "It's called _The Return of the King_. It has this line describing Gandalf. He's the good wizard. It says that under his care and sorrow was a great joy, a fountain of mirth enough to set a kingdom laughing. I read that line and I thought of you. I feel like you have a great fountain of sadness inside you, that even when you're happy there's still this underlying grief. I guess some people might call it depression, but I'm not sure that's the right word. But just like sometimes you get this hopeful expression on your face, other times you have a distant look in your eyes that just makes me think deep down inside you're really sad."

Owen paused for a moment, hoping Abby would be willing to talk about her feelings. She stared into the fire, saying nothing.

"I think you have hopes and dreams for the future," Owen added. "I just think you have a hard time expressing them. I need you to know that I have hopes, too. My hope is to help you, Abby. I want to heal you, make you better. I know part of you just wants me to ignore all the vampire stuff, but I think you're aiming too low. You're trying to suppress the guilt; I want to get rid of it. I want the day to come when all that sadness in you is gone. Can you imagine that happening? I can. I can imagine a day when you no longer get that empty look in your eyes."

Abby did not seem to be dealing well with this particular subject, but Owen couldn't stop. For so long he had been pursuing his plan to transform Abby's life. Now that he was finally telling her about it, he had to get it all out.

"Here's what I'm thinking," he explained. "The most important step in helping you get better is finding a way for you to eat in which no one gets harmed. That's the one thing we just absolutely have to have. But by itself it won't be enough. There's stuff I can do for you. I help you have fun. I make you happy. I love you. I think if I do these things long enough it'll really make a difference.

"A key part of that is the 'long enough.' The way I see it you've been living this life for at least 250 years. It's been really hard on you. To undo all that, make up for all that, it seems to me it might take at least that long. So if I'm going to help you like I want, I need you to change me.

"I understand this is a topic you'd rather I didn't bring up, so I'm sorry I have to. I just want to be with you, Abby. I want us to be together forever. Don't you want that, too? I can make you happy. I mean more than happy. I can take away those pools of sadness. I really think I can. I just need time. Only you can give it to me."

Abby curled up into herself, her expression miserable. Owen found himself getting annoyed.

"I know the science fiction movies aren't your favorite, but think about it. Imagine how much different the future is going to be. Who knows what sort of things might get invented, things that could really help you. The future could be so much better. But I want to be in that future with you. I don't want you to leave me behind."

Abby still refused to respond.

"I'm trying to love you," Owen said, exasperated. "Love you with my actions. But I need love, too, Abby. Don't you understand that?"

"I'm sorry," she said, and that was all.

Owen stood up and walked around the fire, making an effort to hide his frustration. What was he supposed to do? Abby wouldn't talk to him. Was their whole life going to be like this, him constantly trying to think up creative ways of getting information out of her? Last night's telepathy had been so encouraging. Owen felt like their relationship had taken such a huge step forward. But how to build on that success?

Owen supposed he could abandon the effort at conversation and simply ask her to share another memory. In considering this he remembered the analogy Alvirez had used. The agent had mentioned secret compartments hidden inside secret compartments. Owen had discovered one hiding place through the telepathy. Maybe he should make an effort to search the same compartment rather than go looking for another one.

"Abby," he said, "let's take a break from the book and try something different. I'd like you to do what you did last night. I'd like you to share a happy memory. But here's what I'd really appreciate you doing. I'd like you to share the _same_ memory, if you would. Show me the same stuff about Constance."

Abby responded to this request with a very peculiar smile. Owen wasn't sure what to make of this, exactly. At least it seemed to be an affirming smile. Abby sat by the fire and invited Owen to join her. He got down next to her and reentered the world of her past.

The second time through the Constance memories was a radically different experience. Owen realized that the first time he had been focusing almost entirely on what he was seeing. But now he knew what was going to happen. This freed him to concentrate on Abby's feelings rather than on her actions.

So many emotions! She never felt just one emotion at a time. Instead there was always a remarkable jumble of feelings coursing through her heart. Sometimes none of them stood out as dominant. Other times one emotion was clearly stronger than the rest. But always Owen had a whole collection to sort through. And then there were his own responses to what she was sharing. The total package was incredibly overwhelming.

Owen was after something specific, though, which helped a lot. He zeroed in on the four times when Abby had seemed to feel hopeful. This time through Owen was able to register other emotions along with the hope: confusion, uncertainty, wonder, longing, desire, fear. The collective impression Owen received was that it had been a very long time since Abby had last experienced hope. A very long time indeed.

When Abby broke the connection Owen started kissing her again. Things went a lot farther this go-around, and by the time she removed herself a considerable amount of clothing had gone by the wayside. She finally shoed Owen toward the creek. He grabbed his shirt, headed down the hill, and plopped himself directly into the water.

Abby's resolve was weakening, that much was obvious. Maybe she felt the closeness of the telepathy, too, and wanted to match that emotional bond with a physical one. It was just such an overwhelmingly intimate union. How could sex even compare to it? Certainly one more episode of memory-sharing and that would be it for the whole virginity thing.

He returned to the campsite an hour later. Abby had not moved from her spot on the ground. Owen sat down, took her face in his hands, and touched his forehead to hers. He considered abandoning his entire plan for helping Abby. He would ask her to share another memory; she probably would. They would make love, get married, and enjoy what time they could – perhaps a few years. Then when the age gap was too great for them to remain lovers, he would switch into the role of older brother.

Two things enabled Owen to resist the temptation. First, he simply refused to follow the path trod by Abby's previous caretakers. There was no way he was going to settle for that dead-end road. He wanted more. He _had_ to have more. He was going to make Abby whole. And that meant insisting on holding out. Second, Abby was actually feeling hope. Owen didn't know why, he had no idea what Abby was hoping for, but he guessed that if he abandoned his plan to heal her, the hope she was feeling would die. He didn't know why this was the case. He felt certain of it, all the same.

"I have to call Alvirez," Owen said, excusing himself. He went to the car, turned on the satellite phone. The agent picked up on the second ring. Owen summarized his evening with Abby.

"I think being with Constance was the first time she experienced hope since becoming a vampire," Owen explained. "The feeling shocked her and scared her. She didn't even recognize it. She got used to it in a hurry, though. Once she started feeling it she kept longing for more."

"If you're right," Alvirez said, "that's pretty significant. It means none of her previous caretakers made her feel that way. How many do you think there were before Constance?"

"I know about three for certain: Betsey, John, and Sarah. My guess is there were more."

"It gives you a new question, at least. Why did Constance make her feel hope when none of the others did?"

"Does that mean I'm crazy?" Owen asked, suddenly alarmed. His actions since meeting Abby swept through his mind: hooking up with a vampire, tearing Bobby's throat out, harvesting blood in Brooklyn, obsessing over how to feed Abby, thinking about becoming a vampire himself. Wouldn't some people, at least, consider Owen to be out of his mind?

Alvirez reassured him. "The old saying is that if you can ask if you're crazy, it proves you're not. Stay focused, Owen. Maybe you have something in common with Constance. It's not insanity."

"I tried to talk to Abby about changing me."

"She wasn't interested in doing it?"

"She wasn't interested in _talking_ about it," Owen clarified. "I swear it's like beating my head against a wall."

"I think in certain ways Abby is like a baby," Alvirez said. "Babies don't think in words, and so they don't communicate in words. Maybe Abby is a little bit like that. There are certain topics, at least, that she doesn't think about in words. That means she'll never be able to discuss those topics with you. All you're ever going to get is non-verbal communication."

"I don't understand," Owen said.

"Babies are aware of their needs, Owen. And they think about their needs. They just don't do it in words. How they actually do think is beyond me, actually. But they obviously do. They use cries and body language to indicate that they need something. The parents have to figure out what it is. They turn the baby's non-verbal communication into words. That's what you have to do. Abby is like a baby."

"She uses words all the time," Owen objected.

"Think about it, Owen. What is she actually freely willing to talk about?"

"Movies, music, guns, books, cars. Me, I guess. Some parts of our relationship. My homework. The news. The past. Some of it, anyway. Marriage. Maybe sex. Maybe it's just me that doesn't like talking about that."

"OK," Alvirez said. "Now list the topics she's hesitant to discuss."

"Turning me into a vampire," Owen declared. "Her depression. Hunting. Hiding the bodies. The future. Her wants and needs. Her previous caretakers, to some extent, at least. She won't talk about not talking. That's really frustrating. Any kind of vampire stuff, really."

"What do all those things have in common?" the agent asked.

"I don't know."

"Well here's one thing I think they have in common. I think they're all things the monster doesn't want her talking about."

"What did you say?" Owen asked, his heart seeming to stop mid-beat.

"Speech is behavior, Owen. That's something I couldn't get straight for the longest time. We choose what to do, right? We choose what to say, too. That means speech isn't really a separate category. It's just a different type of behavior, nothing more or less.

"What does the monster do to Abby? It affects her behavior. Some things it compels her to do, like reading the paper and learning about firearms. Other things it keeps her from doing, like going in sunshine and walking through open spaces. Don't you get it, Owen? _Speech is behavior._ That means the monster probably affects her speech. Maybe some things the monster forces her to say. More importantly, maybe there are other things the monster won't _let_ her say. She doesn't discuss her taboo topics because the monster won't let her."

Owen's head began spinning. Except it was really the world swirling around him, the entire universe spiraling out of control – and then shattering. _The monster won't let her talk._ In an instant all the anger he had been feeling toward Abby vanished, replaced with a fearful dread. She didn't give him the silent treatment because she didn't love him, because she didn't _want_ to talk. She gave him the silent treatment because she had no choice.

"You're sure?" Owen demanded. "Saying the monster won't let her talk is a hell of a lot different than just saying she won't talk."

Alvirez elaborated. "I picture her mind like an ocean, with islands scattered across the surface. The islands are her taboo topics. The monster sets up a magnetic field around those islands. Whenever Abby's thoughts get too close to one of those islands, it's like a north pole repelling a north pole. Her mind just bounces off. She's probably not even aware of it. My guess is the monster won't even let her think about the fact that there's certain things she can't think about."

Owen wasn't listening. _The monster won't let her talk._ He dropped the receiver, headed back toward the fire. Such a simple observation. But it made sense of everything. Abby was _trying_ to speak to him. She was simply doing so at an unconscious level, using the only language still at her disposal.

Owen reviewed the past year-and-a-half with Abby, myriad instances of her non-verbal communication flooding through his mind:

The night they first met – "I can't be your friend" – expression distant and sad.

After he had lent her the Rubik's Cube – "I don't really get cold" – voice distant, bitter.

Asking her how old she was – "Twelve, more or less" – shrugging shoulders, wincing eyes, tone bitter.

Asking her about her mom – "My mom's dead" – eyes empty, hopeless.

In the drug store parking lot – "Owen, do you like me?" – voice needy, desperate.

Lying beside him in his bed – "I'm nothing" – ageless despair.

In her apartment – "I need blood to live" – unfocused, ashamed.

After eating the policeman – "I have to go away" – distant, hopeless.

Sharing a memory for the first time – "Be me a little" – tortured, empty, defeated.

Weeping after Owen gave her his blood – horrified, guilty, despondent.

Arguing after Lisa's death – "This isn't what I want…you're changing" – desperate, resigned.

The silence after she killed the Cherokee Indian – ashamed, helpless, doomed.

Owen digging to bury her victim in Montana – withdrawn, hopeless, despairing.

Any time he tried to talk about vampire stuff – unhappy, sullen, thousand-yard-stare.

_The monster won't let her talk._ But Abby was finding a way to work around the monster. With every expression, every tone, every empty, distant gaze, she was telling Owen what she wanted. What she needed.

Abby was still sitting, staring into the fire. She turned toward Owen as he walked up next to her. He squatted, took her face in his hands, and studied her eyes. Expressions could communicate so many different things. But if it was something the monster didn't _want_ him to know, that eliminated a lot of possibilities in a hurry. _The monster doesn't want you to talk. But why should it care?_ If only he could ask Abby! He knew he would never be able to. He kissed her lips and stood back up.

"I distract you from your guilty feelings," Owen said. "That doesn't make the actual guilt go away, though. I make you feel loved. But do I really love you? Am I really loving you? I make you feel hopeful. But have I actually given you anything to look forward to? I think I've figured out this much, though: you hoped Constance would do something for you. That's part of why you enjoyed being with her."

Abby folded her hands and pressed them to her mouth. Her eyes welled up with tears.

"This thing you wanted Constance to do," Owen continued, "it was something only a crazy person would do. Constance never did it. You were with her for so long, but she never did it."

Abby started crying freely now. It was strange, though. She seemed relieved, grateful, joyful. What did such tears mean? Was she happy? Sad? Both?

"Whatever it is you wanted from Constance," Owen concluded, "you think I might do it. I'm not crazy. But you still think I might give you what you want. That's why I make you feel hope."

"I'm sorry we never got married," Abby said, rubbing her cheeks.

"You're hoping for something, but you can't tell me what it is."

"I'm sorry I was so selfish," Abby said, placing her palms on the ground.

"It won't let you."

Abby winced, her face so unbearably full of grief. "I'm sorry," she said.

Owen glanced away. A future of horror and despair threatened to swallow him. To _become_ Abby, to take all that hopelessness upon himself – how could he do it? How could she expect him to endure it? Yet what choice did he have? He loved her. He loved her so much. And if the monster would not let her talk, there was only one thing Abby could be hoping for. Owen drew his sidearm, aimed at Abby's center-of-mass, and pulled the trigger.

The monster sensed danger, driving Abby quickly to her feet. As a result the bullet pierced her stomach instead of her chest. She staggered back, already in vampire form. She turned to flee.

Owen was crying himself now, which blurred his vision. He could make out red on Abby's back, indicating that his first round had passed through. He fired a second time, striking her in the left buttock, and a third time, taking out her right knee. She growled and collapsed on the ground.

Then she rolled over, and she was Abby again. She used her hands to turn around, propping herself up to face him. "Let me turn you," she said. "You saw how it was with me, with Virginia, with Lucy. Just a single bite. We'll be together forever, Owen. I know it's what you want. Live with me. Stay with me. Please."

Owen realized all he had to do was take three steps forward. Abby would bite him, she'd be unable to resist. Owen might have to fire once more to keep her from killing him. And then, by the time she recovered, Owen would be a vampire, too. There'd be nothing she could do about it. She'd simply have to accept it.

And as he considered it, Owen decided that it _was_ what he wanted. Despite all the horror and misery of a vampire's life, the murder and the shame and the hindered thoughts, Owen knew that more than anything else he wanted to be with Abby. They would go into the future as husband and wife, enjoying one another for thousands of years. Some advanced technology would take care of their dietary requirements, Owen would slowly, steadily heal Abby's soul, and they would grow more in love by the century. How refreshing, how freeing, to _finally_ know what he wanted.

But it wasn't what Abby wanted. Owen fired a fourth time, hitting her above the right breast, and a fifth time, striking her left shoulder. She fell onto her back, her breathing ragged. Owen approached and discovered on Abby's face the most beautiful look he had ever seen. It wasn't fun, or happiness, or love. It wasn't even hope. It was peace.

"Owen," she said, her voice terribly gentle. "I love you."

Owen nodded. Then he wiped the tears from his eyes, cocked his pistol, and shot her through the heart.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: The Hilltop**

Alvirez helped Owen drag Abby's body to the top of the hill. There Owen unwrapped the tarp in which they had carried her, exposing her precious, broken form. The horizon was just beginning to lighten. The boy had until sunrise to change his mind.

Owen began stroking Abby's hair and caressing her face. He seemed numb, calm even. Too calm. Alvirez had witnessed such behavior before, could guess what it meant. The boy had decided to join Abby in death. The agent didn't think Owen had reloaded his gun. He was probably planning on burning.

Alvirez was left with a decision of his own to make. Should he let Owen kill himself? For that matter, should he let the kid kill Abby? Owen had acted in such haste. That in itself was rather interesting. No contemplation or delay. Owen must have thought the monster would sense danger and respond. And if that were the case, then Alvirez was mistaken about the two times he had supposedly "defeated" Abby.

First on the rooftop in Bernalillo, then in the forests of North Carolina: both times Alvirez had been in Abby's presence, firearm in hand. He could have shot her. Or so he had thought. But if the monster could sense danger to such an extent that Owen had been forced to act instantly, then that meant the only reason Alvirez had gotten close to Abby with gun was because the vampire had sensed no intent to harm. Which meant Alvirez hadn't really defeated her at all.

Except here he was, standing over her dead body on a hilltop in Wyoming, his own words having egged Owen on to do the despicable deed. Was he really right? Did the monster actually restrict her ability to speak? Owen certainly thought he was right. But considering the boy was a total mess at the moment, that didn't necessarily mean a whole lot.

Owen picked up her hand and pressed it to his cheeks, his forehead, his lips. "So cold, Abby," the boy said. "You never warm up, no matter how long I hold you."

Alvirez glanced away. Was _he_ going to be able to hold it together? He had seen a lot of people die, but not like this. He walked around Abby so he could get a better look at Owen's eyes. The boy's expression was vacant, hopeless, distant: just like Abby. _Dear Jesus_, he thought, _what am I supposed to do?_ Should he try to talk Owen out of it? And if so, what could he possibly say to make the boy want to go on living?

_Was_ there a reason to go on living? Maybe Alvirez should simply jump on the pyre with the two young lovers and add a little fuel to the bonfire. There would never be another project like Abby. How could there be? Figuring her out was certain to be the high point of his life. Could he content himself with going back to the study of "normal" people? Or should he go out on a high note, his greatest victory still fresh and alive?

Not that he had planned on Abby dying. Or that he had even expected Owen to reach the conclusion he had reached. Alvirez tried to remember what he had been thinking, found it hard to do so. He had realized Abby didn't think in words, that the monster hindered her ability to talk. Had he really gone past that? At some level had he guessed where Owen would go with that? He didn't know. He didn't think he would ever know. Abby was dead. And Alvirez was partly to blame.

Owen kept inspecting the horizon, watching the sky brighten. The weather was flawless, crystal clear: no help there. Alvirez observed Owen as the boy played with the tarp. It was like he kept thinking about draping it over Abby, only to change his mind again and again. The agent figured he had to say it at least once.

"You don't have to do this, Owen," he said. "We can wrap her back up, stick her in her tent, let her heal. I can go rustle up someone for her to eat when she wakes up. She doesn't have to die."

"What would she say?" Owen asked. "If she _could_ speak? Maybe she'd say she _does_ have to die." He went back to kissing her face.

Alvirez wondered how long it would take Abby to heal. Part of him hoped she would wake up in time. She would spring from the ground, eat Alvirez, and then rush off to find some sort of shelter. Maybe she would go back to Owen one day. Maybe she wouldn't. But at least Owen would still be alive. And the kid wouldn't have to deal with the prospect of an Abby-less universe, himself to blame for it.

_How do you convince someone to live?_ Owen had made no effort to talk Abby into living. Once he had realized what she wanted, he had acted – and without delay. But Owen was at such a different place in life. Presumably he did still have something to live for. The agent glanced over his shoulder at the brightening horizon, guessed he had about twenty minutes to figure out what that might be.

"I understand why Abby would want to die," Alvirez said. "I've known men, soldiers and criminals, who killed themselves out of guilt. I reckon Abby's done worse than any of them. So her wanting to die, that makes sense to me, Owen. And maybe she is just too far gone. Maybe this really is the only way for her to be at peace.

"But how can you be certain?" the agent asked. "If I'm correct – if the monster won't let her talk – then the one thing you want is the one thing she can never give you. She can never just plain look you in the eye and say, 'I want to die.'

"You understand you're making a lot of assumptions here. Why won't she discuss her taboo topics? Because doing so would reveal her death-wish, and the monster won't let that happen. Why won't she hide the bodies? Because a secret part of her wants to get caught. Why won't she turn you into a vampire? Because she'd rather have you kill her. That's an awful lot of guessing. How can you know you're right?"

Owen gazed up at him, blinking. It was too much for the boy to handle. Alvirez could see it in his eyes. Likely the child couldn't think at all. He had made his decision. Now he was simply waiting for the sun to rise.

Uncertainty, doubt, reservation, misgiving. Alvirez tried to imagine himself in Owen's shoes. He reckoned the second-guessing would drive him mad. _Did Abby really want to die? How can I know? I have to know. But I can't know._ It wouldn't take too much of that to make any man insane. Maybe death on this knoll really was the best Owen could hope for.

"Pick one thing," Alvirez urged. "Pick the one thing that most clearly indicates Abby doesn't want to die."

This got Owen's attention. "She entered uninvited," Owen recalled, staring into the past. "She started bleeding all over the place. I saved her. I told her she could come in. It made her so happy. I'd never felt her so happy. You'd think she'd have responded differently if she wanted to die."

Alvirez tried to process this. Did it mean something? Anything? Everything? "There are several possible explanations for her response that night," he said. "One is that you're just plain wrong. Abby does not want to die. This is not what she's been hoping for. That moment in your apartment is actually a better indicator of her inner feelings than anything else she's ever given you. You're in the process of making a tragic mistake, one that will destroy both her life and yours."

Alvirez paused for a response. He wondered if Owen was even listening.

"Another possibility," the agent continued, "is that her happiness at that moment came from realizing, at an unconscious level, that you might finally be the person who would love her like she wanted. She might have been asking herself, 'Could this be the one? Could this be the friend who will finally figure out what I most desire but can never express? Could he be the one who will love me enough to kill me?' Not that the monster would ever let her think such thoughts, of course. But maybe that was what was really going on deep inside her.

"But the most likely explanation," Alvirez granted, "is the simplest: part of her wants to live, part of her wants to die. Even as she longs for her melancholy to end, she still clings to existence and light and joy. So you have to think about that one part of her, Owen, that part that wants to live. Why not obey the desires of that part, and let her keep living?"

"I know her heart," Owen said. "I feel the self-hate during telepathy. I hear the bitterness in her voice. I see the emptiness in her eyes. This is what she wants. I know that now. Maybe I've always known it. I tried so hard to make her whole." He lowered his head onto Abby's chest. "Some hurts can't be fixed."

Jesus, how was he supposed to dispute that? Wasn't he just a broken relic himself, going through the motions, suppressing the barrenness of a detestable life? How could he argue that this girl ought to live? Why should anyone live? Maybe it was better to burn.

Owen had let Abby in, sparing her life. She had seemed happy to be spared. An event open to different interpretations – like everything else Abby had given them. Owen might sound confident at the moment, but that was only because he was planning on dying in the next few minutes. If he went on living, the doubts, the second-guessing, would creep in and destroy him. Because he could never really know for certain. Always the question would be there: did I make the right call?

Alvirez considered the decisions he had made in Vietnam, some of them right, some of them wrong. Decisions that got people killed. So many people killed. He knew the frustration that came in the night, the lurking wonder that wrecked the soul. What if? What if? What if? Blood dripped from his hands and lips and brain, the gore of innocents. He owed the gods a death.

Oh, he knew why Abby wanted to die. No mystery there. Could he give Owen a reason to live? Could he give himself one? If the doubt were certain to slay his sanity, what kind of life could the boy possibly have? Certain doubt. There was an ironic problem: there was no doubt that doubt would kill them all.

Alvirez laughed then, although he didn't think Owen noticed. What intellectual challenge could possibly be more interesting than figuring out Abigail Wheeler's internal thought processes? Discovering a way to be certain that Abby really wanted to die. The quest for certainty – that would be even harder, for as postmoderns alleged, of course, it was impossible to be certain about anything.

How to fight the madness of uncertainty? Become certain! But how could they seek it? How could they find it? Abby had given them all she could. What could ever enable them to take that data and reach an assured conclusion? It would be a monumental task, an epic task, a quest for an infallible understanding of the mind and motivation of another creature. Could they do it if Abby were dead?

Could they do it if Abby were alive? The proposition was simple: Abby wants to die. Was part of the tragedy of her existence that they could never know for sure until after she was dead? But how to gain such confidence? Could the mission ever be accomplished? It would be a life's work. Enough to make Alvirez want to go on living.

Would it be enough for Owen? Part of the reason Owen wanted to die was probably the agony of uncertainty. He couldn't imagine living with the doubt that he had made the wrong call. But what if he lived to fight that doubt, to conquer it, to acquire a certain knowledge that he had done the right thing? That might be enough to live for. Maybe.

Alvirez realized in that instant that he _wanted_ Owen to live. He actually cared about the boy; go figure. He would have to take him under his wing. He would have to train him and instill in him a new purpose, something that could fill the emptiness that awaited him. And if they succeeded, the holy grail of epistemology beckoned: certainty.

The agent squatted down next to Abby. In the growing light he thought her wounds appeared a bit less ragged. The monster was repairing her injuries, racing the rising sun.

"I wonder if any of her caretakers ever figured it out," Alvirez said. "She needed someone determined enough to dig into her motives and discover her secret hope. She needed a person willing to act on that knowledge. And it seems she also needed a person who would act instantly, without delay. I reckon you're the only one who ever loved her enough to meet all those requirements."

Owen stroked her hair, ignoring him.

"I used to think you'd given up everything for Abby," the agent said. "I was wrong. Now you're giving up everything for her. _If_ you walk off this hill with me."

Owen looked up. "Huh?" he asked.

"What's harder?" Alvirez asked. "To die with her, or to live with what you've done? I think we both know the answer to that. I don't think she wants you to die for her, Owen. I think she wants you to do something much harder. I think she wants you to _live_ for her, to take all her hopelessness and misery and self-hate upon yourself. I think she wants you to endure the uncertainty of whether you really gave her what she hoped for. To live with that burden, Owen – _that_ would be giving up everything."

The boy actually seemed to consider this line of reasoning, although Alvirez wasn't sure why. He pressed his advantage. "If Abby could actually talk," he said, "do you think she'd want you to die with her? Wouldn't it make her happier to know that you, at least, went on living? She doesn't want you to be a vampire. And you're not. You have the human life she envied. It's her gift to you, Owen: refusing to make you like her. She would want you to enjoy that gift."

Owen put his head back on Abby's chest. Alvirez knew he had to try something else. The agent was using argumentation. Owen made decisions based on emotions. How could he reach the boy's heart? What could he say to awaken a desire for life?

"The monster is cruel to her, Owen. It denies her one of the core benefits of human reason: self-knowledge. It won't let her know herself, not at a conscious level, anyway. So you've gone and done that for her. You've thought for her, felt for her, known her, better than she knows herself.

"Do you need me to do that for you, Owen? Do you need me to know you, to feel for you because you're incapable of doing it for yourself? I tell you, you don't really want to die. There's a part of you that craves life, that longs to live enough for both of you. You have that part in you right now. You're satisfying the part of Abby that wants to die. But she wants more than that. She would have you satisfy the part of you that wants to live."

Owen pressed his forehead to Abby's, started crying. Alvirez realized he was wasting his time. There was no way he could talk the boy out of this course of action, not in this extremis of emotion. It was a time for death.

"Maybe other friends of hers did figure it out," Alvirez suggested. "But they didn't love her enough to go through with it. Maybe Constance would have done it, but she wasn't able to figure it out. I can imagine at least a few, perhaps, who started wondering if what Abby really wanted was peace. But they couldn't give up what peace they had so Abby could have some of her own instead.

"I know you might not want to hear this," the agent continued, "but I think there's something inherently selfish about Abby. She's damaged goods. She doesn't have much to offer. She needs you to give way more to her than she can ever give to you. She needs you to do something for her that she can't earn and can never repay, something she can't even ask for. She is utterly helpless. You have to figure out her need and meet it for her sake, not yours. You get only one thing in return: the possibility that you actually helped her, that you succeeded in meeting the one need she truly cared about.

"You wanted to make her whole. But you never realized that might entail breaking yourself in the process. You were willing to do it, though. I'll give you that. But now I guess you're damaged goods, too. I'm done trying. Go ahead and burn." He plopped on the ground next to Owen. The boy paid him no mind.

Alvirez couldn't believe he had stooped to reverse psychology. His mind seemed scattered, unfocused. He so hated the thought of Abby dying. It was inconceivable to imagine the world without her. Life would seem hollow, void, meaningless. An Abby-less world. The agent figured he had some inkling of Owen's inner darkness, understood why the child wanted it to end. But that couldn't be allowed.

"I imagine Abby and the monster as locked in a cold war," Alvirez said, trying to think of something to say as he scooted closer to Owen. "They don't like each other, but they're forced to coexist. Abby uses the monster's strength and wings. The monster uses her intellect and gentleness. I can guess that Abby hates the monster, but I wonder if the monster hates Abby. Maybe it would prefer her to just accept that they're on top of the food chain. That Abby has a conscience probably really annoys the creature. Maybe it wishes she would think of herself as an animal. Animals don't feel guilty after they eat. I know you always want to take away Abby's guilt, but maybe she doesn't want it gone. Maybe she likes tormenting the monster with its deeds." He shifted a little more, kept prattling.

"I think it's interesting you had to prompt her to share the memory of Constance. I think she wanted to share that with you sooner, but she had to wait until you asked. The monster wouldn't let her take the initiative. It wouldn't let her know what she actually wanted to do. How smart is it, though? I think it depends on Abby to do the heavy thinking. By limiting her ability to think it ends up limiting itself. It denies her the ability to reflect, to know herself. It won't let her be introspective, or ask herself why she feels what she feels. But then how was it to know how dangerous it could be to let Abby share the Constance memories?"

Owen started mumbling. "Abby, I love you. I love you so much. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never even asked you to marry me. I can't believe this is how we end. I'm sorry." Tears poured down his cheeks as he pawed at Abby's chest. It was so much brighter. Was that the vampire's heart pounding in her chest? The agent glanced over his shoulder at the dawn. Just a few minutes to go. He adjusted into his final position.

"Let me ask you something," Alvirez said, ignoring Owen's weeping. "At the moment you actually shot her, did you give any thought to the lives you were saving?"

Owen had nothing to say to this. Once again he lifted Abby's hand to his face.

"Maybe in one way Abby was selfish," the agent suggested. "But in another way you seem to be a lot more self-absorbed. How many people has Abby killed over the centuries? Five thousand? Probably more. And how many will she kill in the future if she doesn't die here? Do you care about those lives?

"This is something you need to think about, Owen. Maybe you don't care about her prospective future victims. But maybe, just maybe, Abby does. Imagine she cares about them. All of them. She would consider her death both proper and worthwhile. Not a cause for mourning at all. A cause, in fact, for rejoicing. She would ask you what the hell you're doing, blubbering when you should be dancing.

"She hates the monster," Alvirez offered. "She wants it dead. She wants it dead even more than she wants to stay alive. There are good people in the world, Owen. People who value the lives of others more highly than they value their own. I say Abby is a good person. For the sake of all those future victims, and the ones before, she desperately seeks the monster's destruction.

"Because she was trying to communicate with you," Alvirez said, "and because you figured out what she was trying to say, that means the two of you defeated the monster together. You saved countless lives together. That might not mean anything to you now. But one day I think it will." Alvirez jumped from his spot and tackled Owen.

"No!" the boy shouted, struggling to get free. Alvirez pinned the child's arms to the side of his body and wrestled him into the dirt. "Let me go!" Owen demanded. Alvirez remained silent, letting the boy fight until he finally gave up. "Why?" Owen pleaded.

"Because I'm a heartless, unromantic son-of-a- !#$%^&*," the agent replied, "and right now that's exactly what you need. Look at her!" he demanded. The sunrise was now just moments away. "Own it, Owen. Face it. You don't know. You have to know. But you don't know. Maybe this is exactly what she's been hoping for. Maybe you're making the biggest mistake of your life. There's no way to know. Not right now, anyway. Feel the uncertainty, Owen. Feel it! She wants you to feel it."

They stared at Abby together, watching as the first rays of sunlight struck her face and hands. Her skin began to blacken. Owen started screaming.

"This is how you save someone," Alvirez declared, shouting in Owen's ear. "You take their pain upon yourself, and you _feel_ it. Feel your heart, Owen. That's _her_ sadness. That's _her_ despair. It was hers, and now it's yours. You're saving her, Owen. Just like you wanted."

Abby burst into flames. Alvirez was no longer wrestling Owen, but comforting him, embracing him, crying with him. The hilltop blazed with unnatural light, consuming their hopes and dreams.

"Now you have nothing," Alvirez said. "And she has everything. And that is love."

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue<strong>

Owen entered a bedroom and shut the door. He set a small bucket on the desk provided by his new foster parents. He pulled the lid off gently, exposing the contents.

"The Jenson's seem nice," Owen said. "I think they'll make a good mom and dad. I start school on Monday. Ninth grade, Abby. Can you believe it? I'm going to go to high school. They say Thomas Jefferson's the best. You've got to admire Alvirez' connections.

"I've been thinking a lot this week. I've decided you're not happy you got turned into a vampire. Not happy at all. And I've been wondering, What does Abby want me to do if there are others out there? I think you would want me to do something.

"I don't know what, exactly. Alvirez and I are working on a plan. He only lives an hour from here. Did you know that? I'll actually be able to meet with him now and then. I think he'll keep training me. He'll train me to hunt vampires."

Owen pulled the ring from his pocket and set it on her remains. "I know I haven't formally asked, but you did say getting on the train was like getting engaged. You don't mind me presuming, do you? If it's alright, I'm just going to call you my fiancé. That makes things simpler for everybody.

"There's one thing you have to know, Abby. You're in a private residence now, and no one invited you in. The Jenson's didn't say you could come in. You're in my bedroom, and _I _didn't say you could come in. I'm really interested to see what you're going to do about that. I can be patient. There's no need to rush. Show me what you're going to do."

Owen sat down beside the desk. He pulled the bucket toward himself, rested his chin on his hands, and began watching Abby's ashes to see if they would bleed.

* * *

><p><strong>Postscript<strong>

Thanks so much for reading _Let Me In 2_! I hope you found the characters interesting and the plot thought-provoking. Perhaps few people will say the story has a happy ending. But Owen really does manage to give up everything for Abby. And we can hope the poor girl rests in peace.

The theme of vampiric suicide is not new. Neither is the idea that the monster will not allow Abby to kill herself. What may perhaps be original is the notion that the monster will not even allow Abby to think or _say_ she wants to die. This turns the story into a mystery and a character study: figuring out what Abby really needs, and then deciding what to do with that knowledge.

At the conclusion of the film _X-Men: Last Stand_, Wolverine/Logan makes the same decision that Owen makes. For the sake of the woman he loves, he kills the woman he loves. But in the movie, Jean Grey twice articulates her desire to die. To me this strips the movie of much of its potential power. The film would be better if Jean is _never_ able to tell Logan what she really wants. Logan has to figure it out on his own. He has to kill her, never knowing for certain if he is making the right call. It would make his sacrifice much more poignant, for in addition to committing himself to a life without Jean, he is also committing himself to a life of doubt and uncertainty and possibly even madness. _That_ is giving up everything for someone.

There are other stories in which the man loves the girl by giving her up. The movie _Hancock_ and the novel _A Tale of Two Cities_ come immediately to mind. (Can you think of others?) The theme of dying for the girl is more common, of course, but I wonder which is harder: dying for the girl you love, or killing the girl you love? At one point Owen tells Lisa he would die for Abby. Lisa is not impressed. Would she be impressed with what Owen ends up doing instead?

I've taken some digs at _Twilight_. Let me say up front that I've read all four _Twilight_ books, and find the last one in particular to be entertaining. But the romanticizing of vampirism I simply cannot handle. There is nothing romantic about being a vampire. Abby hates what she is and what she does. _Let Me In_ is such a powerful movie precisely because it does _not_ romanticize vampirism. What's so special about a coven of super-heroes on a restricted diet? But a helpless girl afflicted and tormented by the blood-sucking demon inside her? Now _that's_ interesting.

I find the psychology of Abby's character utterly fascinating – so much so that I've written an entire novel about two men trying to figure her out. She really is an enigma. The direction I take Abby is based primarily on the body language used by actress Chloe Grace Moretz. Her tone of voice is very significant, especially in the lines "Owen, do you like me?" and "I'm nothing." But it's her eyes that really flesh out the inner life of her character. Such empty, vacant, tragic eyes. She looks like someone who is going through hell – and wants it to stop. This is my take on her facial expressions, anyway. I realize others might interpret her body language differently.

As a twelve-year-old, Owen is too young to understand Abby. But if he's an adult when he finally figures her out, I don't think he could give her what she wants. So Owen has to be old enough to reach the critical conclusion, yet young enough to act upon it. The challenge then becomes how to mature Owen quickly but realistically. This is my core motive for giving him so many "grow up fast" experiences – juvie, Brooklyn, Alvirez' training. When a fourteen-year-old boy realizes that Abby wants to die, the reader needs to accept this discovery as plausible. Hopefully it _is_ plausible. Owen has been through a lot. He has grown up fast. But he is still a child, still able to point a gun at a child and pull the trigger. I don't think most adults would be able to do that.

But Alvirez plays a larger role in the story than simply teaching Owen. Owen learns a lot from him, certainly. Yet Alvirez is still the only adult in the book. _He_ is the one who makes the critical discovery about how the monster limits Abby, not Owen. No matter how fast Owen is growing up, I don't think any teenager could connect the dots and realize that Abby doesn't discuss her taboo topics _because the monster won't let her_. This discovery _has_ to be made, but only an adult can make it. Thus the need for Alvirez.

A basic decision I had to make before starting _Let Me In 2_ was whether or not to POV Abby (meaning whether or not to show some events from her point of view). I decided not to, for three reasons. First, the movie presents Abby as an enigma, and I really wanted to retain that sense of mystery. To POV Abby lets the reader into her thoughts and feelings. The mystery is undone. Second, this story is all about two people trying to figure out Abby. I wanted the reader to join the characters on their quest rather than know the answers in advance. Third, it is essential for the ending that the reader _not_ know what Abby is really thinking and feeling about Owen's decision.

The movie _Let Me In_ concludes on a train, signifying that the story of Owen and Abby can proceed in many directions. I want to be faithful to this theme of uncertainty expressed by Matt Reeves. In her last moment alive, Abby may be utterly and completely thrilled that a caretaker has finally figured out what she wants – and is willing to do it for her. Or Owen might be making a colossal, tragic mistake. Owen doesn't know. He never knows. And neither do we.


End file.
